


pale green things (pale green things)

by BeeLove



Category: Iron Fist (TV)
Genre: (and he gets one! he gets so many!), (like so much), (more like plant shop but alas), (there are so many plants in this story), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Danny Rand Has Tattoos, Explicit Sexual Content, Families of Choice, Harold Meachum is a Dick, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Ward Meachum Loves Plants, Ward Meachum Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:55:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 56,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24408415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeeLove/pseuds/BeeLove
Summary: or: when my heart is bleeding, you're coming to get meIn which Ward Meachum drags himself away from his father's influence to open a plant shop, learns what it means to have real friends (even a family), and falls in love with the beautifully endearing tattoo artist across the street. It's hard, and he's struggling, but he wants so desperately to do right by the people he cares about. Also, he just really wants to look after his plants, okay?
Relationships: Jessica Jones & Ward Meachum, Ward Meachum & Colleen Wing, Ward Meachum & Colleen Wing & Karen Page, Ward Meachum & Karen Page, Ward Meachum/Danny Rand
Comments: 68
Kudos: 40





	1. first

**Author's Note:**

> title is from [Pale Green Things](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lBla7yCx9Yk) by the Mountain Goats  
> subtitle is from [Making the Most of the Night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FC9aceFjhd4) by the queen herself, Carly Rae Jepsen, with the pronouns switched;  
>  _"when your heart is bleeding, I'm coming to get you" -- > "when my heart is bleeding, you're coming to get me"._
> 
> ~~song lyrics? in _my_ fic titles? more likely than you think!~~
> 
> So how's quarantine going for you guys? Listen, this is what happens when I listen to Fall Out Boy and Carly Rae Jepsen nonstop for like two weeks. I can't be held responsible.  
> Special thanks to [csi_sanders1129](https://archiveofourown.org/users/csi_sanders1129/pseuds/csi_sanders1129) because when I said "so I have this really weird idea..." she said, "I'm sold." Thanks for letting me bombard you with my progress and ask for help and be generally dramatic while offering unconditional support.

“Something's happening across the street,” Karen announces to no one early Friday morning, as she takes a small sip of her coffee. She's peering out the large, glass panel windows (south facing, get the best sunlight, Ward had made sure of it when he bought the place some almost two years back) that make up the storefront of Dryad & Co. Plant Shop. She doesn't sound immediately alarmed, which he supposes is somewhat comforting.

“Something like what?” He asks without looking at her – he's crouched on the cement floor, evaluating their stock of small (“baby!” Colleen had insisted on calling them, despite his vehement protests, “they're baby sized!”) succulents. It was a loose shop policy to wait until they were about two inches before potting the juvenile plants for sale – this most recent batch seems to be growing well, he notes as he reaches out a finger to nudge softly at one of the tender, green leaves. He glances up in time to see Karen fixing him with an indulgent smile, and he narrows his eyes. “Something like what?” Ward asks again, and she laughs into her travel mug.

“I think someone's moving in,” She turns back to staring out the windows – not at all inconspicuous – and, bracing his hands on his knees, he levers himself out of his hunch to join her. “I mean, there's been activity for, like, a week at least. So I'm not surprised.” They're not necessarily trying to be stealthy, but he still feels uneatsy about openly staring at whatever has captured Karen's attention. She has no similar compunctions, as she points at the moving truck parked in front of the previously empty space across the street.

Ward watches as a small team of movers unload boxes onto carts, all under the supervision of an over-eager blonde. He's young – maybe about Karen's age (“You are not that much older than me, boss,” she would often point out whenever he tried to make himself feel old.) – and excited, talking with his hands as he makes repeated trips from the moving truck to the store. The movers seem to be indulging him, as he hefts a few boxes into his arms and trots after them.

“He's cute,” Karen points out, not an ounce of inflection in her voice.

“Stop it,” Ward grimaces in response, though it's lacking in heat, and she cocks an eyebrow at him.

“I'm just saying.” He rolls his eyes at her and makes a show of checking the time on his watch. They're not due to open for another hour, so he sighs and stuffs his hands in his jean pockets. (Ward Meachum! Wearing jeans to work! What would his father say.) “He looks nice,” Karen tries again, “we should go say hi later.”

“You're fired.”

“You can't fire me,” she singsongs, twirling away to the register and out of his reach, “you'd fall to pieces without me here.”

“Ain't that the truth,” he huffs under his breath, but she still hears him. Ward allots another thirty seconds to watching their new neighbor move in – the kid looks decently harmless, if decidedly unshaven; he's wearing inoffensive jeans, some kind of dark gray, graphic t-shirt with a muted red, hooded sweatshirt. The thirty seconds turns into a good few minutes when the kid tromps out onto the street, no longer wearing his sweatshirt. It's not just that his arms are frankly absurd (his muscles shift beautifully when he grabs another box from the truck, Ward admits), but they are also covered in tattoos.

He's too far away to distinguish any details, but the kid's definitely sporting a full sleeve on one arm – it even looks like he has the backs of his hands covered. He can pick out some splashes of vibrant color among the black and gray, and Ward can't stop himself from wishing he was close enough to admire the art disappearing into his loose shirt. It's not like he's never seen someone with tattoos before – the majority of his customers have them – but there's something about this kid that makes his skin feel too tight. 

Absolutely exasperated with himself, he widens his eyes at his own melodrama – what the hell is wrong with him – when his new neighbor reaches his arms high into the air and arches his back in what must be a thoroughly satisfying stretch. His shirt rides up, because of course it does, and Ward catches sight of more ink curling up one side of his belly. 

_Oh no._ He frowns with dismay as his face flushes. _He is cute._ Because what's truly distracting is the way the early morning sun catches in his curls, like honey or marigold or – and oh God, he's looking this way. Shit. The kid lets his arms fall to his sides and he smiles, raising his hand in an enthusiastic wave. His face is smudged with dirt – Ward can tell, even from this distance – and his hair sticks to his sweaty forehead, but he looks absolutely delighted to be alive.

Hesitantly, Ward lifts a hand in response. The kid laughs, cheering. _Oh no._ His frown deepens. _He's nice too._ Far too nice for a person like Ward, at least.

“Ward!” He startles, twisting around to meet Karen's bright smile. She beckons him over to the computer with a slightly frantic hand wave. “That potter – she emailed us back! She said she'd make some planters for us. Come here, come here!” He looks back at the kid, but he's already moved on to his next task. Ward swallows his disappointment and crosses the shop to join her, letting himself get swept up in her excitement.

\- - -

Dryad & Co. was born out of the Ward's third (and last) stint in rehab. The facility had a garden and greenhouse for patients to spend their time between mandatory therapy sessions. Ward was reluctant at first, still bitter and sad and trapped by his father's ever twisting manipulations, and it took two weeks for him to venture out to the greenery.

The employee in charge of the garden and greenhouse had been excruciatingly tolerant (Ward remembers chafing against her even-keeled grace). She let him exist in the space without any expectations; he would watch as she wandered through the plants, touching their leaves or petals and greeting them quietly. She talked to them constantly in quiet murmurs – a habit that Ward, himself, denies picking up, despite the mountains of evidence against him – as she watered them and tended to their simple plant needs. She largely ignored him, until he asked a question or two. Then, she began the careful process of teaching him how to tend to the plants.

How to check for over and under watering.

How to hold a small, green thing in his hands with kindness.

How to treat root rot.

How to hold a small, green thing in his hands and be alone with his thoughts.

How to get fresh plant cuttings to sprout roots.

How to hold a small, green thing in his hands and forgive himself.

He remembers spending an inordinate amount of time sitting in the greenhouse and letting the damp, rain smell curl into his lungs. He remembers the pride of watching dainty shoots of green sprout through the dirt and knowing that he put them there – knowing that they were alive, fragile, and wet, because he had done something right (for the first time in his life, if his father was to be believed). He remembers giving himself permission to feel gentle and warm toward something that served no real purpose, no utility.

When Ward left the facility after the prescribed 90 days, she met him at the front office, a small plant cupped between her palms. He froze as she pushed the terracotta pot into his stunned hands with a knowing smile. Prodding at one of its flat paddle leaves with a fingertip, he gazed down at the plant and felt something crack in his throat.

“Good luck, Ward,” she pressed a hand to his shoulder, and he exhaled shakily as she ducked down the hall with a fond shake of her head. He stood there, unmoving, until a receptionist told his ride was ready. Naturally, his father had hired a car to retrieve him and his bags; Harold stopped acknowledging his trips to rehab after the first run (unless he brought them up as evidence of Ward's numerous and varied failings). He spent the ride back to his apartment with his plant cradled in his hands, silently dreading the return to real life.

Almost no one acknowledged his three month absence from the office, and he slid numbly into the empty routine of meetings, negotiations, and his father's violent disappointment. Joy once offered a brief respite from Harold's unpredictability, but she was kept busy overseas (intentionally, by their father's design, if Ward had to guess). Their conversations became stilted and smothered – he didn't even tell her that he had gotten clean. Somehow didn't see the point.

He kept the plant on a corner of his desk, although he was constantly terrified that Harold would send it tumbling to the floor during one of his outbursts. It was a Mother of Thousands; (he had to look it up) its flat, paddle leaves were edged by tiny, green rosettes. He caught himself marveling at the spidery roots of the baby plantlets, barely clinging to the mother plant. He nudged at the little growths with one finger until they fell from their mother and rooted in the soil beside her.

Six months of dying silently at his desk at his father's company, Ward packed up his office and left. He was a coward, but relentlessly fastidious about it – he spent a solid month looking for a suitable storefront (with south facing windows, an apartment on the second level, and a private lot in the back), broke his lease on his stupidly austere loft, and boxed everything up to be moved to his new place. 

He did his own research, learned everything he could about plant care from workshops and online tutorials – even reached out to local whole sale nurseries on the sly to see what their stocks were. Then, when Harold was out of the country for an extended business trip, Ward handed off all his projects to underlings, cleared out his bank account, and fled under the cover of darkness, his trusty Mother of Thousands riding shotgun beside him. (He's not even embarrassed to admit that he buckled her into the seat.)

That first night in his new place – much smaller than his old apartment but also much kinder – was terrifying; he kept waiting for his father to kick down the door and drag him out by his hair. Despite knowing that logically, Harold was an ocean away on a completely different continent, and it would take him at least twelve hours to get back to the city, Ward spent the night listening for the sound of splintering wood and shattering glass. 

Morning came with dry eyes and no destruction, so he got to work on preparing the store for opening. The shop space had two rooms – one for the front of the house and one, slightly smaller, for backroom dealings. There was no door separating them, unfortunately, but he could hang up a heavy curtain for privacy. In the gap between the two rooms was a flight of stairs leading up to his apartment. Ward spent a minute standing at the base of the stairs, taking in the spread of empty, cement floors that he was suddenly responsible for. He rocked back on his heels with a slight grin. Time to get to work.

During his meticulous month of planning, he had worked with a freelance graphic designer on the sly to craft a logo, and he felt a wave of pride when he saw _Dryad & Co._ spelled out in sleek, spiraling cursive across the storefront window in stark, white vinyl. (He landed on the name at an inappropriate time during a board meeting – he had been momentarily convinced that Harold could sense his thoughts and immediately knew that he was planning an escape.)

Shelves and tables – all made of dark, sturdy wood – arrived later in the day, and he had too much fun directing the delivery guys around the space. (They absolutely definitely hated him, but he gave them a truly offensive tip to make up for it.) When the day ended and he was alone, Ward spun in a slow circle and surveyed the shop. Shelves lined the walls (including the glass window storefront) and large, rectangle tables took up the majority of the floorspace. Some repurposed clothing racks were brought in to display an array of hanging plants. Tucking his hands in his jean pockets, Ward rocked back on his heels and allowed himself to feel happy for the first time since he left rehab.

That good feeling – tentative, delicate, and ill-earned – carried him through the first few weeks of business until one Monday in early May (the only day of the week that Dryad & Co. was closed), he came down from his apartment to see the front door smashed open. Ward froze, suspended in the doorway between the back and front rooms, struck silent by the sunlight glittering across the shattered glass in the entryway. It wasn't exactly surprising, but it still hurt. 

He took his time scanning over the shelves, not quite crowded by plants, and exhaled shakily when he saw nothing else was broken. Everyone was safe in their pots and the register was untouched. Even though someone had thoroughly enjoyed themselves kicking the shit out of his door, they hadn't bothered to rob him or destroy his stock. Ward inhaled, long and slow, and reached for the broom tucked behind the counter.

Static kicked up under his skin and behind his teeth, and he tightened his fingers around the broom handle until his knuckles went white. He knew exactly where the closest bar was, though it probably wasn't open at eight in the morning. Didn't mean he couldn't find a liquor store. Exhaling through his nose – one careful, extended breath – Ward looked down at his hands. They were steady. He was in his shop. He was in control. Everything was going to be all right.

Sweeping up the mess didn't take long, although he felt eyes on him the entire time he worked; the familiar, aching itch between his shoulder blades made his palms sweat around the broom handle. The uneasy anticipation was a gift from his father – an unfortunate holdover from always feeling like he was doing something wrong or breaking rules without even knowing what the rules were. He shook out his shoulders and glanced around for a piece of cardboard big enough to cover the gaping mess that had been his door.

“Damn,” he jumped, unaware that he had company, and turned to see a girl poking her head in through the empty doorway. She tossed her loose ponytail over her shoulder and scuffed the toe of one white sneaker against the sidewalk. “You all right, dude?”

Ward blinked at her, taking in her clenched fists and raised eyebrow. Unused to people offering help without any ultimatums, he propped himself up on the broom and fixed her with a flat stare.

“Got it covered, thanks.”

“You sure?” She sounded equal parts disbelieving and unimpressed, as she edged her way around the broken door and frowned at the glass shards that he had swept into a neat, little pile. “Listen, just let me help. You look a little pathetic, dude.”

“Wow, charming.”

“I'm Colleen Wing,” she held out her hand, laughing. He hadn't quite unlearned all of Harold's mantras of 'don't trust anyone' and 'never ask for help' and 'you are weak and useless.' so he eyed her with acerbic unease. “Come on,” she wiggled her fingers, until he finally reached out and took her hand in his.

“Ward Meachum.”

Colleen stayed to help him figure out the door situation. (She knew a guy who knew a guy who could help them out on the cheap.) He bought her pizza as a thank you, which she ate one handed while mercilessly giving him shit. At the end of the night, Ward offered her a job and, after a tense moment of silence – during which he completely rethought every decision he ever made in his life – she accepted.

She didn't know a lot about plants, but she knew about people. Ward put her in charge of the shop Instagram and Facebook accounts, and she had way too much fun developing a social media presence and connecting with their customers. They amassed a small cult of loyal followers, and Colleen delighted in composing plant aesthetic photos with succulents and artfully draped fairy lights. She also started photoshopping pretentiously close up photos of their plants with ridiculous things he said – her words, not his – and sharing them in what she called “Ward Quote of the Week” posts. It helped that she included the name of the plant, with “in stock now @ Dryad & Co.” in the image description.

(Joy was among the first wave of Instagram followers, and Ward refused to let himself examine that one too closely.)

Colleen balanced her shifts at the store with volunteering at the community center, and they fell into a rhythm together. Business at Dryad & Co. was quietly picking up, and Ward allowed himself to feel something akin to accomplished. They had even been hired to work a wedding. Sustainability was very in among millennials, and the brides were both incredibly excited about the possibilities of incorporating succulents into their wedding motif. The table centerpieces were clusters of small, individually potted cacti intended to be taken home by guests after the reception. 

Their bouquets were matching Key Lime Pie succulents – he thought the ruffled edges of the thick, wedged leaves made them particularly fetching. Both pots were wrapped in white lace and ribbon, which Colleen had far too much fun assembling. She was a demon with a glue gun. She also obsessively documented the whole process, to be posted on the shop Instagram after the ceremony.

The brides had been so happy with everything that they promised to recommend them to their engaged friends – Ward was already fielding negotiations with two more couples. (“Lesbians love you, man!” Colleen had laughed, even as he explained that “not all women getting married to other women are lesbians, Colleen. Bisexuals do exist, Colleen. I would know, Colleen.” He then had to beg her not to use that for one of her Ward Quote of the Week posts.)

Karen Page, they met six months (and a few more suspicious glass door related incidents) after Colleen first poked her head through the busted entrance of his shop. One slow, rainy Saturday in mid November, she showed up in a panic, her pale hands clutched around a wilting Echeveria Valentine. Colleen, half hunched over the register, perked up as the teary-eyed blonde looked around frantically, her lip caught between her teeth.

“Can we help you?” She asked carefully, and Ward peeked his head out from the backroom.

“I'm so sorry,” she stammered, using one hand to brush her wet hair out of her face, “I don't even know if this is something you do, but –” She held out the small, ceramic pot with a shaky smile. “It's just. I don't know what's wrong with it, and I was hoping maybe you could help me?” 

“Boss?” Colleen called out, not taking her stare off the shivering, potential customer.

“Yeah, yeah,” he fully emerged from the backroom and smiled. The blonde's eyes locked on him, and he deliberately slowed his pace. There was something sickeningly familiar in the way she ducked her head, and he felt his jaw tick. “I can take a look at it – I'm Ward, by the way. I'm the owner.” He made sure to stand close to Colleen as he held out his hands, open with palms up, for her plant. “Give me a few days to diagnose it, and I'll let you know. If you can come back on... Tuesday?” 

He paused, waiting until she nodded, “I should have some more information for you.” He cradled her plant to his chest and rocked back on his heels as he asked a few questions – how often was she watering the plant, did she repot it recently, was she using fertilizer or plant food, how much sun did the plant get – and made mental notes of her responses. “Yes, thank you – just give me some time, and I should have some answers for you.”

“Thank you – it's really not too much trouble? I wasn't even sure if this was a thing you guys did. And, I can pay you, of course –”

“Don't even, it's on the house.” Colleen cut her off with a good-natured eye roll. “He lives for this stuff.”

“Yeah?” She asked, face breaking into a nervous smile; Colleen laughed.

“Oh definitely. It's really not a big deal. – he's a plant whisperer.” Ward refused to let himself be embarrassed as he nodded, offering her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“Okay,” their not-paying customer bobbed her head shakily, “I'll see you both on Tuesday?”

“Yep,” Colleen titled her head to one side, sending her ponytail slipping over her shoulder. “We'll be here! Have a good night!” They watched as she ducked back into the rain, and Ward looked down at the echeveria in his hands. Its leaves were definitely drooping, and the soil was a mite damp, but it was going to take more than a glance to figure out what might be afflicting it. “You could totally figure this out by tomorrow – you don't really need until Tuesday, do you?” Colleen muttered, leaning one elbow on the register counter. 

“Probably.” He mused, pondering over his new plant friend – its dark red-purple leaves really were magnificent, even in their drooping state. “But you don't work tomorrow. And I thought she'd be more comfortable with you in the shop too.” Still looking over the plant in his hands, Ward wandered off to the backroom and completely missed Colleen's open-mouthed stare.

She came back just after opening on Tuesday morning – Colleen was wandering around with a spray bottle to mist the plants, and Ward was pretending to be working at the register, when he was really just flipping through old receipts. The little Echeveria Valentine was waiting near his elbow, and he imagined it perking up when she walked through the door.

“Good morning,” Colleen trilled on autopilot, though her face brightened with a genuine grin. “You're back!”

“I'm back,” she shrugged nervously. “I hope I'm not too early. You said you'd be done by Tuesday, so...”

“Yes, of course,” Ward edged out from behind the register and snagged her plant as he walked over. (Once again, he made sure to stick near Colleen, who seemed content to stay in his orbit for the time being. Thank God.) “So, I think the little guy is over-watered,” he explained as he handed the ceramic pot back to her. “And he might need more sun during the day. Make sure the soil dries out completely between waterings and try moving him somewhere he can get a lot of light.”

She held the plant close to her chest and listened, nodding as he laid out some advice. “Thank you so much – I can't even tell you how much this means to me,” her voice caught in an all too familiar way, and Ward hid his clenched fists behind his back. “I just. I got him when I was going through some stuff. And I was so worried –” She cut herself off with a self conscious laugh, “never mind, it's stupid.”

“Ward says good morning to the plants when he opens up. And good night when he closes,” Colleen offered blandly. “So don't even worry about it. You don't have to explain yourself here.”

“Thanks,” she rolled her eyes, “my name's Karen, by the way. I realize I never introduced myself before.”

“Well, you know Ward.” Colleen titled her head in his direction, “and I'm Colleen. And this is Dryad and Co.,” she gestured with the spray bottle to the whole expanse of the small shop, “and it's a safe space. So don't apologize for your plant feels.” Karen laughed again, her eyes shifting between the two of them. Ward rocked back on his heels.

“Karen, do you want a job?”

She froze, her face fixed with a startled grin, and he felt something cold and cruel unfurl in his belly. He really was a fucking idiot. Colleen rolled her eyes so hard that he physically felt her irritation. “Please forgive him – he never really learned how to people. If it makes you feel better, he did the exact same thing with me.”

“No, no, it's okay – um.” Karen shuffled back, “I think I'm just gonna go – thanks again for looking at my plant.” She bumped into the door as she tried to leave, and Ward awkwardly took a few, miserable steps back to give her space. “Yeah, um, thanks. Again.” With a flip of her snow blonde hair, she was gone.

“Ward. _What the hell?_ ” It took less than five seconds for Colleen to turn on him. “You can't just offer jobs to whoever walks into the shop! It's fucking weird.”

“I wasn't trying to freak her out,” he gestured uselessly, as she pinned him with an _oh you think so?_ stare. “I just thought – she cares about plants, and we really need the help. We almost died working that wedding with just the two of us. And,” he paused, “I think she needs us too.” Colleen sighed, and he shrugged helplessly. Before he could say anything else, she whipped her hand up and misted him in the face with the spray bottle. “Oh what the _hell?_ ”

“Don't think too hard on it. If she comes back, she comes back.” She flounced away from him, her ponytail bouncing with each step. “Though you really do need to stop trying to hire every person who walks in here. It's a shit business model.” He rolled his eyes at her and shuffled to the backroom to answer emails from some soon-to-be-married couples.

A few days later, he found himself frozen on the steps leading down to the store from his apartment, listening to Karen's voice carrying through the shop. He could also hear Colleen, so he wasn't worried about her wandering around the place, unattended.

“What kind of boss is he, though?”

“Ward?” Colleen laughed, and he could imagine her shrugging effortlessly. “He's a nice guy. He likes to pretend he's a dick, but he's actually okay. Like I said – he says good morning and good night to the plants.” Ward counted himself suddenly, violently lucky that Colleen hadn't included his opening and closing rituals in her Ward Quote of the Week posts.

“So he's all right? Like he's never...” Karen trailed off, and he squeezed his eyes shut in disbelief. He could hear all the unasked, unfinished questions she wanted to ask, and he felt the muscle in his jaw jump with frustration. Something had happened to her, and he wished – not for the first time – that he hadn't blurted out the job offer like an idiot.

“He's never hit on me, if that's what you're asking. And it's not like he hasn't had the opportunity.” He heard Colleen sigh, and then there was a beat of silence. “Look, I know he probably freaked you out, but Ward really is a good dude. He just doesn't know how to interact with people. And it's okay if you don't want to work here – I'm not going to try and convince you. But he really was just offering you a job. He was just a fucking dumb ass about it.”

There was another, longer, beat of silence, and then he heard the door open and shut.

“Did you catch all that, boss?” Colleen called out, her face angled to his hiding place. He shook his head, wondering why he was even surprised.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, kicking his way down the stairs and into the backroom. “Come on, back to work.”

“I wasn't lying, you know,” she told him, twisting around to yell after his retreating back. “You are a good dude, Ward Meachum.”

“Back to work!” He shouted, without any real heat or volume, in response.

By the late afternoon, Ward figured he had spent enough time hiding and ventured to the front of the store. They had entertained a few customers throughout the day, but it hadn't been especially busy. Colleen had occupied herself by taking pictures and creating a “what plant from Dryad & Co. are you?” quiz. As well as a “What 'Ward Quote of the Week' post are you?” quiz.

“Hey boss,” she greeted him with a suspiciously cheery smile. “What Carly Rae Jepsen lyric makes you go absolutely feral?”

“How much,” he pointed at her with a pen he snagged from the register desk, “do I need to pay you to never ask me that again?” She threw her head back, laughing, and he rolled his eyes fondly at her hysteria. “You think we should have a shelf for plant swapping?” He asked suddenly, “customers drop off a plant that they can't keep anymore, and someone else can pick it up for free? And we'll look after them in the meantime.”

Colleen paused, still snickering to herself, “that's not a bad idea. Want me to poll the masses?” She shook her phone at him and he shrugged.

“Let me think about it for a minute, but we should definitely consult our fans before going forward.” Bobbing her head, she turned back to her phone – he ignored her, pretending that whatever captivated her attention was somehow related to work. They sat in relative silence (broken only by Colleen asking him to “pick an aesthetic, Ward,” and him actually tossing the pen at her in response) for maybe twenty minutes, when Karen slipped into the store.

“Did you mean it, when you offered me a job?” He looked up at her, then glanced at Colleen (who gave him a _come on, bud_ chin jerk), then swiveled his stare back to Karen. She crossed her arms over her chest and raised one eyebrow.

“Uh, yes. I meant it. We'd be happy to have you on the team.” Colleen rolled her eyes, but retained her silence, when Karen's face broke into an impossibly sunny grin.

“Okay then. I accept.”

As it turned out, Karen had _ideas_ , which she laid out within hours of taking the job as Dryad & Co. Sales Associate. She thought they should offer plant doctoring as an actual service and, depending on the needs of the plant, they could charge a small fee to help coax the sick plant back to life. (“After the initial diagnosis, they can pay, like, I don't know – ten bucks? if they want to leave it with you for a week for you to get it back to fighting shape. Or, if they don't want to pay, they can just take the plant home and try to do it themselves,” she explained quickly, gesturing with her hands to illustrate her point.) 

She even made a mock up of a questionnaire with all the questions he had asked her (when was the last time the plant was watered? how often does that plant get watered? is the plant getting food or fertilizer? what kind?) in an appropriately hipster layout. Delicately draw plant leaves and vines curled around and through the questions, all without upsetting the functionality of the design. There was even a place at the bottom for customers to leave their email and phone for further communication.

Colleen peered over his shoulder as he studied the template. “This is really cute,” she said, not quite in his ear, as she grinned at Karen. “I really like it.”

“Yeah? I mean, it only took me like thirty minutes to throw it all together, and I don't know if this is everything you'd need to ask, but –”

“Karen,” he cut her off, not unkindly, “this is a good idea. Let me look it over, and I'll let you know if we need to change anything, okay?” She nodded, looking more steady and grounded, as she uncrossed her arms.

“I have a few more ideas, if you want to hear them.”

“Absolutely,” he opened his arms with a smile. “Lay them on me.”

She suggested classes on a whole host of topics – basic plant care and common plant problems, for starters, but there were probably other things that their customers wanted to learn about, right? – and maybe having monthly sidewalk sales, where they set up tables outside of discounted plants on the first or last Saturday of the month. (They ended up having sales on the first and third Saturdays of every month; they dragged tables outside and filled them with plants on sale for 20% off.)

(“Oh, I like that idea!” Colleen agreed, “I can get kids from the community center to volunteer, if that's okay, Ward?” She titled her head, eyes wide with delight, and he agreed with an absent-minded nod.)

The dyad became a triad. (“The Dryad Triad! Oh, boss, can we get shirts?” Colleen had shouted in his face one morning while he was staring down a Yellow Moon Cactus. “We're not getting shirts,” he mumbled back, leaning perilously close to the cactus's spines until she yanked him back by the collar. Three days later, he got them shirts. The front said “DRYAD TRIAD FOUNDING MEMBER” in crisp, white Helvetica while the back was printed with the shop's logo. It became the unofficial staff shirt.) They settled into a balance that he and Colleen hadn't even realized was missing from the place.

Colleen suggested they write bios for themselves to post on their website and socials, and Ward insisted on writing his own – he actively forbade them from doing one for him. They were simple little write-ups, including when they joined the team, their favorite plant, and what they liked about working at Dryad & Co., but he was surprised by how much it meant to him. Logically, he knew that they were committed to the shop – Colleen had worked a goddamn wedding with him, that was more than enough. And Karen came back, which had to mean something, and she had _ideas_ for Dryad. But he couldn't help the catch in his chest when he thought about it. They were staying. At his shop. With him.

Colleen and Karen had far too much fun staging the profile photos for their bios, and Ward begrudgingly let them pose him around the store. Mercifully, they settled on a shot of him leaning against a shelf of plants, arms folded loosely over his chest and a careful smile on his face. (He absolutely did not get a vote in the matter, but they were gracious enough not to use the one of him gazing fondly at a jade plant.)

After that, it became a game for the two of them to try and sneak of photos of him exhibiting what Colleen called “Plant Dad Behavior”. He didn't actively discourage the shenanigans, but he made them promise not to post any of the pictures online. Colleen then made her one and only offer to discontinue the Ward Quote of the Week series; without thinking, he declined. He wasn't even bothered by the silliness – it was routine now for Karen to laugh at him as he gentled around hanging pots of String of Hearts during waterings or for Colleen to roll her eyes when he apologized to a Marble Queen Pothos for bumping it with his elbow – but the focus had to be on the plants. “On the plants, Colleen!” he had said, emphatically, as she stared at him with a calculating look in her eyes.

(Sure enough, the next Ward Quote of the Week was “the focus has to be on the plants, Colleen!” typed over a picture of some white flecked leaves from their Silvery Anne Scindapsus.)

Colleen brought up reaching out to local artists to sell some plant-themed art and gifts, so they suddenly had a small display of art prints available for sale. They starting hosted classes, like Karen suggested, and Ward found himself awkwardly talking through the perils of root rot or explaining how to mitigate over watering to a mixed crowd of millennials and old ladies. He'd come a long way from running business meetings at his father's company, but he never felt this proud when he was negotiating mergers. They worked two more weddings, which was still terrifying but somewhat more manageable with Karen involved.

(Joy's birthday came and went; he sent a small Echeveria Onslow to her office. He thought she would appreciate the pale pink leaves. After only a moment's hesitation, he slipped a handwritten “happy birthday!” note in with the package. He didn't even know if she got it, but he never heard back.)

They moved forward with the plant clinic, so he had a not-quite-steady stream of unhappy plants to pamper. Some customers were happy to pay him to fix the problem; others were convinced they could handle it themselves. They also set up a small shelf near the register for the community plant swap – customers could leave behind a plant they could no longer care for, and they would tend to it until someone else came by to take it. 

Colleen had been worried that they would see a sudden flood of under-loved plants, but Ward wanted to believe that people wouldn't just _abandon_ them. For the most part, he was right (though he would sometimes see a plant he recognized from the clinic, but he wasn't going to rat them out), and when the shelf got too full, they dragged it out for their sidewalk sales. All plants on this display are free! Take one! Please! 

He still had his Mother of Thousands – he periodically collected some of her offspring to grow in separate pots for sale. (It was a very intense process, which involved carefully nudging the little sprouts free from the mother leaf with the softest of prodding and oh-so-gently replanting them in small pots of soil. Colleen mocked him for it, but he was undeterred as he cupped the tiny leaf clusters in his hands, their spindly roots tickling his skin. Besides, he caught her and Karen cooing over the “bitty babies!” more than once, so who's the real loser, Colleen?) The store had loyal customers who came in whenever Colleen made NEW PLANT ALERT posts on Instagram and Facebook, and they were even featured on some local tourism sites. (Karen made them take a group photo in their matching Dryad Triad shirts for that one.) 

One night, after a particularly successful sidewalk sale that left their shelves considerably lighter (including the community plant swap shelf!), they settled in the backroom with a couple of pizza boxes. Rolling a can of seltzer between his hands, Ward haltingly told them about his father and his sister. About Harold's fists and Joy's absence. About going to rehab three times. About how much it meant to him that they stuck around and worked so hard. Karen told them about her ex and how he had fists of his own. How she bought the echeveria the day after she left him. Colleen stayed quiet for way too long before joking that she was the only well adjusted one in the group. Because someone had to be, and it was always going to be her, right? Because no one else was going to look out for her, right? They closed the night with extended hugs in the entryway, and Ward lingered for a long time, standing in the shifting darkness of the shop before finally going up to bed.

Business was good. He was still woken up a couple times a month to the sound of glass shattering, but even that became routine. He would stumble down into the shop to find it deserted, plants undisturbed, with a spread of glass glittering eerily against the cement floor in the dark. Heart pounding and weary, he would shoot of a quick text to Colleen and Karen to alert them of the damage (always getting some kind of response, despite never expecting one) and grab the broom. 

But that's what insurance was for.

Jessica Jones, however, had been an unexpected development. The store's one year anniversary had just passed in April (he remembers, because he refused to let Karen and Colleen acknowledge it – he allowed himself the superstitious fear that celebrating after one year would doom them to failure in the next. They were kind enough to indulge him, and he pretended to ignore the Completely Random Cupcakes that showed up in the backroom for Absolutely No Reason At All.) when Ward noticed her at one of their sidewalk sales.

She was shifting uneasily through the crowd of customers but not venturing close enough to actually inspect the plants. He kept glancing at her, that familiar prickle of anxiety skittering up his spine, until he looked up from explaining the light needs of a Burgundy Shamrock (partial shade – direct sunlight would overwhelm it) to find her staring him down. She grimaced at him from behind her sunglasses and flicked her dark hair out of her face before crossing the street to disappear into the throng of weekend shoppers.

He took a deep, steadying breath and let the crisp, cool air settle into his lungs. Colleen and Karen both noticed but were gracious enough not to comment. Rolling his shoulders back, Ward tried to remember the shape of a smile and got back to work.

The next day – Sunday, the only day of the week he was alone in the shop – she marched right up to the counter, where he was pondering over a small Panda Plant. He tore his focus from its soft, red-tipped leaves to meet her scowl as she stopped about a foot away from him.

“You should know,” she ground out while maintaining very intentional eye contact, “that your asshole dad hired me to watch you.” Slowly, he put the Panda Plant down on the counter and clasped his hands together. Hopefully, she wouldn't see them shake.

“I did notice you at the sale yesterday,” he tried to find the sharpness he cultivated through years of living under his father's hammer. The acid, the cruelty, the _don't you fucking dare_ , but all he could think of was Colleen and Karen.

“Yeah, I've been on you for like a week?” She glanced off to one side, as if trying to remember the day. “Like a week, sure.” When he didn't say anything else, she took her time to look around the shop. “It's a cute place, by the way. Really fuckin' hipster-y, but not bad. Anyway,” she shrugged and jammed her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket. “I told your dad I wasn't going to work for him anymore, but it felt shitty not letting you know too.”

“What did you say to him?”

She snorted, and her eyebrows twitched with something like pride, “I told him to fuck off, what else?”

“No, I mean. About me. About my shop.” His voice started shaking, as he imagined his father pawing through the shop's financial reports. Harold always was alarmingly good at finding his weak spots and exploiting them to the most merciless end.

“Oh,” she shrugged again, “that your business was legit. That you were just a guy who really likes plants. Like I said, he's a total asshole anyway, and working for him made me wanna throw up.” She laughed, dry and bitter, “and it takes a lot for me to throw up.” 

He nodded, mostly to himself, and tried not to succumb to the panic creeping its way up his rib cage and into his throat. He should have known that smashing his door wouldn't be enough to soothe Harold's wounded ego. He was probably having him tailed constantly. Ward just wanted to count himself lucky that this one was honest enough to come forward.

“Hey, what is that, by the way?” She pointed at the Panda Plant near his elbow.

“Panda Plant,” he mumbled into his hands, “bright sunlight, infrequent watering.”

“Cool,” she shifted from foot to foot, then clapped her hands together. “Well, I'm just gonna leave you to deal with your dad trauma, so I guess I'll see you around or whatever –”

“Do you want a job?”

(“Oh my _God_ , Ward!” Colleen had twisted her hands in her hair, as Karen mournfully shook her head, when he told them later, “stop offering jobs to randos! It's a shit business model!”)

“Uh,” she paused, going deadly still, and slowly tilted her head to one side, “no. I have a job. You wouldn't be able to afford me,” she fished something out of her back pocket and slid it across the desk to him. He glanced down at the slightly crumpled business card. 

_Alias Investigations  
Jessica Jones_

“Hang in there, Ward,” Jessica said, her eyes surprisingly soft. “Sorry your dad's such an asshole.” He nodded, digging his fingers into his hair as she left.

Despite his best efforts, he felt himself slipping into what could only be described as soul crushing despair. He was an idiot to think he could get out from under his father's rage. The rest of the day was slow, and Ward spent the passing hours holding onto his self worth with his fingertips. People filtered in and out of the store, but they mostly made their purchases with minimal conversation. He felt sharp – spikes of bitter resignation poking through the thin veneer of his dignity – and by the end of the day, a heavy thrum of agony was drilling through his skull and into his eye sockets.

_Failure. Worthless. You'll never amount to anything._

Ward sat on the floor of his darkened shop, eye level with a shelf of young (“baby!” he could hear Colleen correcting him in his mind) succulents. His morose stare caught on the pale, fleshy leaves of a plump Echeveria Moonglow. She gleamed gray yellow in the light streaming through the windows from the streetlamps outside, and he shook his head with a wet sigh.

“Now, that's just not fair.” 

He waited until Tuesday to tell Colleen and Karen about his father hiring someone to spy on him. Colleen paced in angry laps around the shop, and Karen hovered near his elbow, resting one hand between his shoulder blades. (And then he told them about offering Jessica a job, and Colleen almost flung herself through a window.) He made vague references to his own spiral of sadness and anxiety, rubbing awkwardly at his forearm as he rambled. Karen hugged him, her blonde head pressed to his shoulder, as they watched Colleen gesticulate angrily at the air.

“I _hate_ your dad, Ward. I hate him _so much_. Fuck that guy. Can we call the cops?” She whirled on him.

“Cops won't work on Harold,” he acknowledged quietly, and Colleen scrunched up her nose in raw frustration. “I know, trust me. The man is a conundrum.”

“An asshole conundrum,” Karen agreed softly, “I can't believe you offered her a job, though. You need better coping mechanisms.” He barked out a laugh before he could stop himself, and Karen patted him on the back a few times. “We'll just have to keep an eye out. She probably won't come back.”

Spoiler alert.

Jessica came back.

“Do you still have that panda whatever?” She asked him, a week and a half later. He froze, in the middle of watering a Spiraled Cereus Cactus. “Whoa,” she took a step back from the tall, twisting plant, “what the fuck is that?”

“Spiraled Cereus Cactus,” he recited, peering down at the lush green spire growing proudly in its terracotta pot, “blooms white flowers in the summer.” He didn't have to look over his shoulder to know that Colleen and Karen had paused in their own chores to eavesdrop. “Sorry,” he shook his head and gently set his watering can down on the floor. “What were you looking for?”

“The panda thing. The one you had the other day.”

“Yes, the Panda Plant,” he ducked around her to peruse the shelves on the opposite wall. “It is... right here,” he crouched down to snag it off the second from the bottom shelf. Its thick, blue-gray leaves wobbled as he handed it to her. Jessica accepted the pot like it was a bomb, staring down at the fuzzy plant with something akin to terror on her face. “When you water it, try to avoid getting the leaves wet. They're very prone to rot, so just be careful.” She didn't say anything else, so he awkwardly held out his hands, as if to take the plant back. “Do you... want it?”

“Yes!” She clutched it close to her chest. “Yes, I want it. I'm buying it – the Panda Plant is mine now, Meachum. Might even give the little dude a name.” She brought it up to her face, her eyes narrowed in consideration. “Maybe.”

“Okay then,” He eyed her skeptically, keenly aware that Colleen and Karen were still watching them, and led her over to the register to ring up her order. “It'll be $12.50,” he recited, reaching under the counter for a terracotta saucer to go with the pot and half expecting her to push back on the price. He wrapped everything up and slipped it into a paper bag stamped with their shop logo as she paid. “Thanks for stopping by?” She waved with one hand as she ducked back out of the shop and disappeared.

Colleen and Karen crowded in the doorway and watched Jessica walk off – as soon as she was out of sight, they darted back to him. “Was that her?” Colleen asked, eyebrows arched.

“Yup, that was Jessica Jones.” He made a show of sitting of the floor behind the register counter, taking inventory of their planter saucers. They weren't quite at the point of running low, but he definitely wanted to confirm that they had at least another box in the backroom. Also, he absolutely did not want to face the considering looks Colleen and Karen were inevitably sending his way.

“She bought a plant,” Karen pointed out helpfully.

“That she did,” he folded his legs up to his chest and rested his arms on his knees. “Even said she might name it.”

“Wonder if she's going to come back,” Colleen mused aloud, angling back to stare out the front windows.

She came back – showed up with donuts one morning from the obnoxiously bougie bakery (her words – he personally enjoyed Marci and Malcolm's artisan pastries) down the street, and Karen accepted the pink, cardboard box with a hesitant smile. Colleen immediately descended upon the treats.

“Listen,” Jessica tilted her head back, scratching anxiously at her neck, “you don't have any reason to trust me or whatever. I get that – it was a shitty thing. And I feel bad about it.” She rolled her eyes and addressed Ward directly, where he was shifting a Domino Cactus over to make more room on the shelf. “Your dad is a huge asshole, and I'm sorry.”

“You don't have to apologize for him,” Ward said, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “He is a huge asshole. We're all in agreement.”

“Did you name your Panda?” Colleen blurted out around a truly disgusting mouthful of donut. She tried to lick chocolate frosting off her thumb and managed to smear it on her chin instead. Karen shuffled over to Ward and held out the box of treats. He looked over the offerings – five more with chocolate frosting, three with pink frosting and rainbow sprinkles, and three chocolate with glaze – as Jessica took her time with her answer.

“Not yet. Figured I should take some time with it. I'll let you guys know.”

“Yeah, come back and tell us,” Karen smiled, holding the donut box out to her. “Do you want one?”

“No, no – those are for you,” she shoved her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket and started walking backwards to the door. “I'll see you around.” Ward saluted her with his rainbow sprinkled donut and raised his eyebrows at Colleen.

“Okay, so she's not all bad. But there's no way she's coming back.”

She came back. And she came back again. And she came back again. She bought more plants – a Peanut Cactus for herself and a Red Moon Cactus for her sister (“Trish will get a kick out of the color, I think,” she commented as Karen bagged up the cacti for her.) – and she brought them more donuts, until Colleen told her she didn't need to bribe them anymore. They were cool. They were buds.

Jessica blended into the Dryad Triad with unexpected ease. She lurked around the shop during work hours – had even been known to pick up a watering can if the need arose – and hung out with them after closing. She dragged her sister, Trish, to one of their sidewalk sales, and Ward watched as Jessica pointed out different plants and rattled off their names. Trish left with two plants – a Donkey's Tail from the sale table and a Snowflake Aloe Plant from the community swap shelf – and Jessica walked away with a Thimble Cactus for herself.

Colleen started teaching Karen and Jessica some basic self defense moves (not that Jessica needed it; she was a total brawler, according to Colleen). She offered to teach him too, but he declined – “why would I need to learn, Colleen, when I have you to protect me?” – privately, indescribably happy that the three of them were all hanging out and having fun. He was also painfully aware of his “boss status”, and he wanted to grant Colleen and Karen some time away from him. 

Even so, his life felt overwhelmingly full. His phone was witness to a steady stream of texts from all of them – Karen and Colleen were constantly blowing up the group chat, and Jessica had taken to sending him pictures of any weird looking plant she found, asking “is this u?” (He responded once: “no, it's my son.” Colleen had never been prouder.)

Weeks passed. He gave himself permission to feel happy.

“Boss,” Colleen groused at him one evening as she swept the floor. “We should get merch for the shop. Get official shirts to sell.” He squinted at her, but Karen looked appropriately enthused from her perch at the register. (She was only half-listening, engaged in a very intense text war with her brother over some television show they both watched.)

“Oh yes! Let's get shirts! Just with the shop logo, Ward, please?” His head swiveled between the two of them, as he absolutely became convinced he was the victim of an orchestrated ambush. Karen widened her eyes with faux-innocence, and Colleen stretched her mouth into what she probably thought was an encouraging smile. (It was not.) He continued to squint at them, until Colleen sighed in exasperation.

“People ask for them, like, all the time. Just think about it, please?”

“I will consider it,” he pronounced slowly and pretended he didn't see them exchange an air-five from across the store.

(He did consider it and realized he didn't hate the idea. He wasn't even sure why he was reluctant – the jump to branding was a logical move – but it probably stemmed from his constant fear of failure. He needed to stop burdening his whole sense of self with his inherent need for reassurance and acceptance.) Not even six hours after Colleen introduced the idea, he shot off a text to their group chat: “we'll start small.” The immediate flood of exuberant emojis made him instantly regret everything.

They did start small; they ordered a run of only one hundred shirts – black, unisex cut, sizes small through extra-large, with the shop's logo printed across the front in crisp, white cursive. Just like the vinyl on the windows. Colleen asked for a stealth version, with the font printed in black on a black shirt, but Ward quickly reminded her they were starting small. She also brought up the idea of totes (“Ooh, Ward! People love totes!” Karen agreed), and he had to ask if she was confused by the concept of _starting small_.

The shirts arrived within a week, and Ward had to lie down on the floor when he saw they were delivered. Colleen and Karen easily maneuvered around his prone body to drag the boxes through the store into the backroom.

“Come on, boss,” Colleen nudged him with one foot, and Karen struggled to break into the boxes. “Up, up, up,” she grabbed his limp hands in hers and tugged him upright. “Let's open our presents.”

“Presents!” Karen cried, holding up a size small in front of her torso. “They look amazing, you guys!” Colleen unearthed a size small for herself and chucked a size medium at Ward's face. He let the shirt fall into his hands, and he felt the softness of the fabric between his thumbs. He traced his fingers over the shop's name – his shop's name – and felt something young and tender unfurl in his chest.

Colleen slung an arm around his neck and pressed a quick, sloppy kiss into his hairline. “Good job, Ward.” He nodded, numb and shaky, and she went back to digging through the boxes with Karen. After a minute, he wandered from the backroom to the register to ring up one medium shirt and two small shirts on the register. Fishing his wallet out of his back pocket, he ran his card through the machine. While the payment processed, he yanked his dark gray shirt over his head. Hopefully no one walking by would peak in the shop and see him, lurking at the register, bare chested. Blinking to himself, he tugged his new Dryad & Co. shirt on, smoothing it over his stomach and running his hands through his hair.

He could hear Colleen and Karen laughing in the backroom, and he braced himself on the register desk with both hands, head hanging low between his shoulders. His bangs fell into his eyes and he clenched his teeth against the rising tide of emotions and the itching under his skin. What if no one bought a shirt? Why did he even think people would want to buy a shirt for his dumb fucking plant shop? Who the hell was he? What the hell was he doing? He should just _walk out_ right now – he knew exactly where the closest bar was. He dug his nails into his palm and tried to take a steadying breath.

“It's going to be okay, Ward,” Karen whispered, ducking around him to lean her head against his back. She wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, as Colleen crowded against his side. He exhaled loudly between his teeth, trying to ignored the gravel hitching in his throat. She flung her arms around both him and Karen and tucked her face into his shoulder.

“You are a good dude, Ward Meachum,” she mumbled against his brand new Dryad & Co. shirt.

The three of them stood together, arms tight around each other, for a very long time.

Jessica stopped by a few hours later; she propped one elbow on the register counter and slouched dramatically into his personal space. “Gimme a shirt,” she demanded in a drawl.

“Jess!” Karen laughed as Colleen dipped into the backroom to grab a shirt for her, “aren't they great?” She gave a little twirl, and Jessica rolled her eyes fondly.

“Yeah,” she reached out with one and caught the shirt Colleen tossed in her general direction. Holding it out at arm's length, she pursed her lips in a ponderous frown. “They're all right.” She rolled her head back on her shoulders to stare him down, “how much?”

“Twenty,” he told her, already reaching for his wallet. “I can buy it for you, if you want.”

“What, no!” She straightened, clutching the shirt to her chest – he had a sudden flashback to the Panda Plant – and shaking her head. “I can pay for my own shirt, Meachum.” She flung her wallet at him and slipped into the backroom. “I'm changing back here – go ahead and ring me up.”

“I'm just saying,” he called after her, “I paid for theirs. I can pay for you too.” (“Fuck no!” came the muffled reply, and he shrugged, fishing her card out of her wallet.)

“You paid for our shirts?” Colleen asked in surprise, looking down at herself.

“Yes,” he laughed, running Jessica's card through the machine. “Did you think they were free?” She didn't have an answer, (later, though, she would corner him in the backroom and poke him solidly in the chest, “never feel like you have to pay for me, Ward, _never_. I am your friend, and you don't have to buy me.”) and Karen shook her head, slipping her phone out of her back pocket.

“We need to take a picture together! Jess, get out here!”

Ward had to hold Karen's phone, because his arms were the longest, and they all crowded together, looping their arms over each other's shoulders and pressing close. Colleen and Karen were absolutely beaming, Jessica managed to look not completely hateful, and Ward's smile was genuine and small. Karen cupped her phone to her chest after, an unfathomably fond shine in her eyes.

The three of them spent the rest of the afternoon taking goofy pictures of each other (“advertising,” Colleen had laughed as Jessica scooped Karen up in her arms, holding her like a tall, blonde infant) while Ward tried to figure out where to display the shirts. The tentative plan was to wait until next week's sidewalk sale to start selling them, but he couldn't get over the idea that nobody would buy them, leaving him with a massive stock of shirts, discarded to the backroom and never to be discussed again.

Predictably, that did not happen.

As soon as Colleen posted on their social accounts that the store (finally!) had shirts, and that they would be available to purchase at next week's sidewalk sale, excited questions asking about pre-orders started coming in. No pre-orders this time around, Colleen explained in an appropriately professional response – they had a small stock, and they just wanted to see if people were interested. If the shirts sold well, she typed, they could consider ordering more with different designs.

They didn't sell out, but their stash of Dryad & Co. shirts was cut in half by the end of the weekend. Ward had to sit down by himself in the backroom for about thirty minutes when Colleen told him she had sold a bunch to a few families. “People like your shop, buddy,” she comforted him. “They like what we're doing here. It's a good thing.”

And it was a good thing. At Colleen's prodding, they moved forward with a second shirt concept; they spent a few evenings brainstorming. Graphics or no graphics? Just text? What font? White on black again? Or branch out with color options? What about tank tops? Karen took meticulous notes on a pad of paper as they talked through their ideas. They decided white on black was the best for now – didn't want to deviate from the established aesthetic. Ward pushed for something simple. Colleen agreed, as long as it was something fun – something with a sense of humor. Karen nodded, scratching out a brief sketch on her paper. She held it up for them to review, eyebrows raised innocently. “What do you think guys?” Colleen laughed, and Ward nodded, an affectionate smile on his face.

They placed the order – another run of one hundred – and topped off their stock of logo shirts as well. When the boxes arrived about a week and a half later, Ward did a much better job of maintaining composure. Colleen and Karen let him crack open the cardboard, and they clapped with glee when he held up a shirt for their approval.

PLANTS! was printed on the front in the large white letters (the same style as their Dryad Triad shirts) and the shop's logo was on the back. 

Karen texted Jessica a photo, and she immediately replied “dibs!” and then “but tell ur boss not to buy it for me”. Ward laughed when Karen shoved her phone in his face and made sure to tuck one away for Jessica to purchase later. (She also ended up getting one for her sister too.) They didn't wait for a sidewalk sale to debut them – Colleen just took pictures of her, Karen, and Jessica posing around the shop in their new shirts and posted them to the socials.

Months passed. He looked into selling their shirts online, after they were featured on a few twee plant blogs, and they started shipping out a few of them a week. Colleen finally recruited a few kids from the community center to help run their sidewalk sales. They worked another wedding and somehow didn't die. Karen wrote detailed FAQ sections on plant care for their website, which he semi-regularly looked over for accuracy. (It was rarely needed; Karen knew what she was doing.) Jessica continued to bring food (pastries, bags of greasy tacos, cartons of egg rolls) around the shop, even though they all told her she didn't need to keep feeding them. (Ward swapped out the backroom's mini-fridge for a full-size, just to store the leftovers.)

They celebrated their birthdays together.

Colleen's was first, in July, – Jessica brought cupcakes from Marci and Malcolm's bakery (spiced horchata with cream cheese frosting and gold dust) to the shop for them to share and allowed Colleen a ten second hug in response. (She also gifted her with a flat metal kitty face key chain, with extra wide eyes and extra sharp ears, which Colleen accepted with a serious nod.) Karen gave her a beautiful pair of deluxe headphones in rose gold; Colleen had almost started crying as her voice squeaked with gratitude. Ward granted her permission to pick 1 (one) photo that she had taken of him and post it to their Instagram. While she rubbed her hands together in frantic glee, he revealed his second gift – a tote bag printed with “HAVE YOU SEEN THE LATEST WARD QUOTE OF THE WEEK?” on one side and the shop's logo on the other. “This one's yours,” he explained as she did her dead level best to hug the oxygen out of his body, “and we'll start selling them in the shop next week. Now please get off me.”

Jessica's was a month later – the only reason they knew was because Trish gave them a tip. Karen ordered an obnoxious chocolate cherry birthday cake with neon pink frosting and glitter sprinkles, and they lured her to the store with tact and grace. (“yo come to the shop,” Colleen sent over text.) Their gift was a joint one – they had all pooled their money and bought her a zoom lens for her camera. Colleen and Karen did an extensive amount of research to find the best one – they kept sending him different options – until they were satisfied. Ward had a feeling she would hate them for it, but he also knew she needed a new one. She covered her face with one hand when she unwrapped the box and exhaled shakily. “Fuck you guys,” she warbled, nonetheless permitting them to hug her for much longer than ten seconds.

Karen's came next, in December, – Jessica brought cupcakes again (raspberry almond with soft chocolate frosting and purple sugar sprinkles) and graciously accepted Karen's gentle, not bone crushing hug. (She also slipped her a kitty face key chain, which Karen quickly tucked into her purse with a dip of her head.) Colleen gave her a shining opal necklace, hanging from an impossibly delicate chain, made by one of her favorite designers. Karen kept looking from the little box in her hands to Colleen with such a tenderness that Colleen started crying into her hair when they hugged. Ward gave her the same gift he gave Colleen – permission to select 1 (one) of her Ward photos and post it to the Instagram. As Jessica and Colleen debated the best way to eat the gourmet cupcakes, he nudged her elbow.

“I have something else for you too,” he said quietly and slipped her a folder full of applications to different business schools in the area. “They all offer night classes, and I think you should seriously consider it.”

“Ward,” she sighed sadly and tried to give him back the slight stack of papers, “that's really sweet, but I don't know if I can afford school again.”

“That's okay,” he assured her quickly, “I can help you with that. I was thinking about it – lots of companies pay for their employees to go to school. Why can't we do something like that here?” He looked at Colleen, who was Absolutely Not Listening In, and glanced back at Karen, whose eyes were wide with shock. “I would help both of you – if either of you wanted to take classes or something, I think we could make it work.” He pressed the folder back into her hands. “Just think about it, okay?”

Colleen toasted him with her cupcake, chocolate frosting smudged on her chin, “you are a good dude, Ward Meachum.” (He moved forward with starting a sort of professional development fund, to be used as necessary, in support of the Dryad & Co. Continuing Education Initiative.)

(For her photo, Colleen picked a picture of him in profile; he was bent at the waist, his arms folded on a table and his chin resting on his hands, so that he was level with a String of Pearls. His eyes were crinkled with happiness and his mouth was open with laughter. She had slapped a black and white filter on it and posted it with the caption “getcha someone who looks at you like Ward looks at his plants”. It received over a hundred likes within half an hour.

Karen picked a shot of him holding a few of the babies from his Mother of Thousands in his cupped hands. His eyes were sparkling with delight as he peered down at the spindly roots and scalloped leaves. He hadn't even realized she had been taking a picture of _him_ at the time – he thought she had been aiming for the plantlets – that's why he had stretched his palms out to her. She followed Colleen's example and used a black and white filter. She posted it with the caption “proud plant dad” – it also received over a hundred likes in less than half an hour.)

His birthday was last, in dreary mid January. It fell on a Monday, and he woke up early to a message on his phone from Karen. “You're not allowed to be at the shop today,” she had texted him. “Let me know when you're ready – we're going out.” He responded an hour later, showered and idly sipping at his coffee.

“What's the plan, exactly?”

“Not for you to know! :] I'll be there in fifteen.” And then, “happy birthday!!” He laughed to himself, thumbing through his phone as he wandered down to the shop to meet her. As promised, she arrived within fifteen minutes, linked her arm through his, and led him off.

She took him to an art museum and let him roam around the Kahlos and Van Goghs. They spent a long time staring at Monet's Water Lilies; Karen marveled at the over forty feet of canvas, felt something wet and tender catch in the back of her mouth at the gossamer blues and greens. They found Pollock's Echo: Number 25 and Ward sucked hard on his teeth as he took in the rolling swipes and skitters of black paint. Eventually, they made their way through the rest of the exhibits, and it was time to meet Jessica and Colleen for lunch.

The four of them descended upon a small neighborhood deli that he had never even heard of but had amazing food. It was a far cry from the high end steakhouses he would frequent during his stint in corporate hell, but he knew the company he had now was infinitely better. They ordered sandwiches with freshly sliced cheeses and meats on obscenely thick bread and took their time eating. 

Jessica and Colleen were suspiciously quiet about how they spent their morning, and they both avoided his questioning stare by focusing on their food. He was forbidden from paying for himself, and he chafed at putting his employees (“friends,” Karen corrected without looking up from her tomato and mozzarella caprese, “we are your friends, Ward.”) in a position where they spent money on him.

“Come along now,” Karen slipped her hand into his elbow when they were all finished, “say goodbye to Colleen and Jessica.”

“Goodbye Colleen and Jessica,” he called over his shoulder, waving with his unoccupied hand, as Karen escorted him down the street. She took him to the aquarium next and let him stray from tank to tank, mesmerized by the gently undulating jellyfish. They dedicated a solid half hour to watching the penguins splashing about their habitat – she took a video of them zipping through the water, and he laughed as they slipped over the wet rocks. They had fun trying to spot the Giant Pacific Octopus – named Persephone – as she showed off her stealth skills and blended her camouflage to the coral in her tank.

At the end of the visit, they found themselves sitting on a bench in front of the manatees. Ward watched as the animals lazily drifted from one end of their pool to the other, casually bumping into each other as they swam. He sighed, dropping his head to rest on Karen's shoulder, and she reached up with one hand to pet at his hair.

“Thanks for today,” he said, not taking his eyes off the exceptionally peaceful sea cows.

“We're not done yet,” she gave his head one more pat and got up. “Let's head back to the shop.”

Dryad & Co. was lit up nice and bright when they arrived, and he could see Colleen and Jessica waiting for them. Karen held open the door, and he glanced around warily. It was clear from the conspiratorial smiles on their faces that he was supposed to notice something, but everything was exactly as he had left it that morning. Karen clasped her hands in front of herself, tilting her eyebrows innocently. He turned in a slow circle, until he finally noticed – 

“Is that music?” He looked up and saw two speakers professionally installed up near the ceiling in previously empty corners of the store – one just above the entrance and another across from the register, so they were on opposite sides of the shop. He could hear instrumental post rock playing softly through the space. “Wait, did you guys –”

“Okay, okay,” Colleen approached him, her hands up, “don't freak out. It's not going to be loud enough to hurt the plants, and we won't play anything crazy, but –”

It was his turn to interrupt her, “no, I'm not worried about that. I know you'd never hurt the plants. This just looks very expensive,” he wandered over to the speaker in the far corner from the entrance and squinted up at it. “Very, very expensive.”

“It's okay, I know a guy who –”

“Knows a guy?” He finished with a smile.

“Who knows a guy,” she agreed, rocking back on her heels with excitement. “There's also one in the backroom, so we can listen back there too. Do you... like it?” He noticed suddenly how nervous she looked – how nervous all of them looked – and he shook his head in surprised confusion.

“Yes, holy shit. Yes, I like it – I just. You guys, you didn't have to do this. Really,” he took a deep, steadying breath. “Thank you. So much.”

“Ward,” Karen laid her hands on his shoulders, “this is your shop, but it's ours too. We wanted to do this for you. You deserve it.”

“Happy birthday, you asshole,” Jessica snarked, “consider this payback for the camera lens.”

“But you needed the camera lens,” he pointed out helplessly.

“And you needed this,” she jerked her head in the direction of the backroom. “Cupcakes are back there, by the way, so come on.” She loped off towards the treats, and the others followed her. Colleen drummed on his back with both hands, right between his shoulder blades, as she walked behind him.

“Happy birthday, Ward.”

They ate the cupcakes (strawberry with marshmallow butter cream frosting and green sprinkles) while Karen waxed poetic about the sea life they saw during the aquarium adventure. She got both Colleen and Jessica to agree to do a big group visit next time, because the penguins were just too cute, you guys. Ward supported the motion wholeheartedly – he wanted to see Persephone the Octopus again.

The conversation ebbed and flowed, shifted between topics as they made fun of each other, and generally talked about nothing. Ward tapped nervously on the table as he bit hard on his lip, looking among the faces of his friends – his family – and feeling stupidly fond of them. Jessica jostled him by propping her foot on the edge of his chair, and Karen poked at Colleen's arm, teasing her for showing off during self defense demos at the community center, and they all laughed.

They all laughed.

Things were good. _He_ was good.

Then came the new neighbors.


	2. second

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Dryad Triad meets their new neighbors, Colleen and Karen threaten Ward's dad with a little bit of violence, and Ward gets to know Danny just a little bit better.

He and Karen spend the day pretending to get work done, but they're fixated on the activity across the street. (They do manage to negotiate with the potter. She can make pieces that fit the resale price range – $10 - $20; he wants to give their customers quality wares, but he doesn't want them to feel like it's over-priced – and it won't be an issue to make pots with drainage holes. She'll have some samples ready and fired by the end of next week. Ward feels like they definitely accomplished something during the morning, even if it was just some emails and phone calls.)

The moving truck leaves after a few hours, and the blonde dedicates a solid part of the day to washing the windows of the storefront. (Ward absolutely does not envy him; he's wasted many an afternoon washing Dryad & Co.'s windows, and it is possibly his least favorite chore.) He's joined halfway through his task by a woman with a half shave; she watches him scrub at the windows and laughs at his struggle, her arms crossed over her chest. He says something to her, and she shakes her head as she heads inside the shop.

“Ward,” Karen says his name like she's been calling him for a solid minute – he startles and twists around to meet her questioning stare. “What do you think about having a giveaway to celebrate the shop's two year anniversary?” Pondering, he crosses the store and joins her at the register desk, his back to the window. “You wouldn't let us do anything for last year –”

“Because it's bad luck!” He cuts her off, fondly exasperated, as if this isn't an argument they've had a billion times already. (He isn't even sure that it is bad luck by conventional superstitious standards, exactly, but he knows the _shaky-bad-wrong_ feeling of celebrating any success he feels is unearned. Which is all his successes, to be honest.)

“So, I was thinking,” she continues, as if he hasn't said a single word, “we could raffle off some gift cards, maybe a tote bag?”

“Let them pick out a plant for free, as long as it's less than seventy-five?” He muses, rocking from foot to foot, as he leans his elbows on the register desk. Karen bobs her head in agreement, suddenly craning around him to squint out into the street.

“Ooh, something else is happening.” Ward looks over his shoulder in time to see another van pulling up – it's from a local sign company, the same one he used for his own shop, so at least the kid has decent taste – and the blonde bounces excitedly on his feet as the guys unload his rolled up sign. He takes a step back, and the woman with the half shave comes back out just in time to save him from stepping off the curb. (Ward is really going to have to learn their names if he's going to spend this much time staring at them.)

They all watch (the kid and the woman from the sidewalk, like expectant parents, and Karen and Ward from their shop, like weirdos) as the sign guys start to unfurl the vinyl. It doesn't take long for them to center it on the front windows – one of the guys looks at the kid, who nods eagerly – and they slowly press the vinyl into the glass.

“What do you think it is?” She asks, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “I'm thinking barber shop.” He nods, considering.

“Barber shop seems likely,” he hums, “though that kid is awfully scruffy for a barber. Shit, it better not be another plant shop.” She laughs and, even though he's joking, Ward has a genuine moment of panic. Surely they've established themselves as the only plant shop on the block. What if someone moves in and does a better job? Karen nudges him and he realizes he hasn't made his own guess yet. “Ah, record store, maybe.”

“Oh, I like that.” Karen rocks back on her heels, “Colleen would _really_ like that.” Ward laughs – he knows that Colleen had the speakers installed for him, but he also knows that she relishes in crafting playlists with Chill Plant Vibes to play during work hours. And off hours. Any hour that she's conscious, really. “Moment of truth,” she singsongs, as the sign guys pull the wax paper off the windows, revealing the white vinyl beneath.

THE ETERNAL OPTIMIST  
tattoos and piercings

The font is a bold serif, and Ward finds himself not completely hating it. The kid claps, hopping up and down on his toes, and Ward remembers the thrill of seeing the words Dryad & Co. on his own storefront for the first time, so he doesn't begrudge his new neighbor's happiness.

“Tattoos and piercings, huh?” Karen purses her lips. “Guess we should have expected that.” She shrugs, a sunny grin on her face, “well, they look nice enough. I'm gonna welcome them to the neighborhood.” Before Ward can stop her, she snags one of the shop's business cards from the tray next to the register and makes a beeline for one of their Bunny Ear Cacti (so named for the small, twin paddle growths that sprout from the main cactus pad). “I'll pay for this when I come back,” she calls over her shoulder and twirls through the door.

“Make good choices,” he deadpans to her retreating back, though he knows she can't hear him, and takes a few slow laps through the store. He's pretending that he's picking out stock for their sidewalk sale tomorrow, but it's really just an excuse to stare at the plants. (He doesn't need to. They do them twice a month, so it's not like he has to think particularly hard about what to put out on the rickety tables. But it gives him something to think about, at least.)

Karen isn't wrong – they should do something to celebrate the two year anniversary. He's scared to admit it, but the shop is doing well. (Sure, the door gets periodically smashed in, but that's just how his father shows he cares. Besides, they have a system now – he contacts Colleen's guy, and they can get the thing repaired in a few hours.) He never had this issue when he was working for Harold – it's like putting his own name on something means it's inevitably doomed to failure. Even now – almost two years into this crazy experiment – he's expecting things to fall apart. For not the first time, he wonders what Joy thinks of his shop. Is she proud of him?

(Her birthday was last month; he sent a Vera Higgins succulent to her office. Its stems draped elegantly over the squat clay pot, and he was infinitely gentle with the dense red, triangle leaves when he wrapped it for transport. Like the Onslow, he never got a response. He hasn't heard her voice in over two years. As far as he knows, she still follows the shop's Instagram account, though she never likes or comments on the posts.)

Ward sighs, his breath cracking against his lungs, and gazes out across the street. Karen's hair gleams in the blinding afternoon sun as she flicks it over her shoulder, laughing and smiling with their neighbors. The kid has the Bunny Ear Cactus in his hands, and he keeps looking down at it with a wide, surprised grin. Ward turns away from the scene, casting his gaze around the shop.

Light streams through the windows, painting everything with panes of yellow. The plants shine sweetly in the glow, their leaves bright and alive. Because of him and because of his love. And because of Karen and Colleen and Jessica. And because of their love. Laughing at himself, Ward slips his phone out of his pocket.

“Hey Marci, how's it going?”

\- - -

Colleen is brimming with glee when he outlines his plan – at least, he assumes she is, going by the frankly obscene number of celebratory emojis she sends in barrages – for Dryad & Co.'s two year anniversary party. It's barely a party, he backtracks when his nerves get the better of him, just a slightly elevated sidewalk sale. But, he's still pleased with it, even though it's not _really_ that big of a deal and – “Ward, oh my God, stop it, it's going to be great, I love it, what do you need from me?” Colleen calls him to derail his increasingly morose text thread.

“Well, Karen had the idea of doing a raffle of some kind. Figure out a plan with her, and let me know what you two come up with.”

“Dope,” she sounds farther away, as if she's just put him on speaker, “I am texting her now... Ward, this is gonna be so fun.” He can hear the smile in her voice, “I can't wait. Okay, I gotta go – I'll see you bright and early tomorrow! Bye boss!”

“Bye Colleen,” he drawls as the call ends. Exhaling dramatically, he taps his phone against his open palm and turns to face the door, just as Karen comes skipping across the street. She pauses, waving over her shoulder at her new best friends, before barreling inside the shop with gossip.

“So, his name is Danny,” she stresses the 'y' sound with a saucy tilt of her head, “and her name is Claire. He's the owner, and they've been working together for about four years. It's a really cute space – there's even an apartment upstairs too! She's still technically working at her old shop, but once Danny has things up and running, she's coming to work with him.” Karen pauses to inhale, “Oh, and they said thank you for the plant. Which!” She pulls out her phone and slips her card out of the little pocket on the back of the case. “Lemme pay for the cactus.”

“Did you tell them not to over water it?” He asks as she rings herself up on the register, not so deftly sidestepping the implication in her voice when she said Danny's name. “Colleen should have texted you about your raffle idea, by the way.”

“Yes – to both. I told them not to over water it,” she assures him, not without a taste of snark, “and Colleen and I are going to chat tonight after we close. She also told me,” Karen whirls on him, pointing at him with an accusatory finger, “that you want to spice up one of the sidewalk sales to celebrate!”

“Nothing too spicy,” he hastens to correct her, “just something to acknowledge how hard we've worked and how much we appreciate our customers. Maybe we'll offer a bigger discount, too – though, we'd probably need more stock.” Ward looks around the shelves, considering. “I'll make Colleen go with me on the next nursery trip.” 

“Regardless, we both think it's a fabulous idea. And I told Danny and Claire about the sale tomorrow, and they said they'd be coming by, but who knows it that was just them being friendly.” She slides against the register table, bumping her elbow against his, “they both seem really nice.”

“Okay,” he cocks his head to side eye her, just a smidge, and artfully changes the subject. “Speaking of fabulous,” _nailed it_ , “I have some ideas about Pride.”

“In two and a half months. That Pride.” She pins him with an unimpressed stare, “sure, let's talk about Pride. What are you thinking?”

“Well,” he reaches for one of the enamel pins they keep in a ceramic dish by the register. (Sometime between Jessica's and Karen's birthday, he reached out to an indie pin maker to craft something for them to sell in store. She came up with a simple design –- a sea foam green succulent with Dryad & Co. written across its terracotta pot. They sold reasonably well for $12 a piece, but he was most pleased by the unmitigated joy on Colleen and Karen's faces when they saw them for the first time.) “It took about two months for Katie to make these, so I thought we should start early.”

“You want to make pins?”

“Plant Pride Pins,” he explains, fiddling with the metal bauble, “if we can come up with a way to incorporate the different pride flags into a plant design, I think people would really respond to that.”

“So wait,” she flings an arm out to dig around in the detritus around their register and snags a pen and pad of paper, “do you want multiple flags in one pin?”

“No, no, we'll do different pins for each flag.” She nods, scribbling something down in rough strokes. “I just don't want people to think we're _pandering_ ,” he pauses as he muses aloud, “well, I don't know how I could pander to myself. I guess sell out? Is it selling out to market to your own community?”

“So, something like this,” she holds up her sketch – three circles, stacked one on top of the other, with rough lines dividing each of them horizontally in half. “Say these are little cacti – this one,” she indicates the bottom circle, “would be red and orange.”

“Yes, and then yellow and green in the next.”

“And blue and violet for the top.” She jots down notes, “like that?” She holds up her sketch again, where she has added the letters R, O, Y, G, B, V alongside the circles, with arrows indicating each portion. He nods, and she taps her pen against the paper a few times. “We could also give each color their own cactus. Would that be too big?” She draws six circles stacked on top of each other. “Is that too big?”

“We can ask the artist,” he assures her, “I also thought we should donate some of the proceeds to charity.”

“The Trevor Project is always good,” she writes it down. “I can do some research, find other organizations that need support. This is a great idea, Ward. Like, seriously. I'll tell Colleen about it tonight – she's gonna love it too.”

“They're just pins, Karen,” he mumbles, face self-consciously pink. She tucks the pen behind her ear and rewards him with a soft smile

“It's a _good_ idea, Ward. Take the win.”

\- - -

The next morning greets him far earlier than should be allowed. Colleen and Karen are already down in the shop when he descends from his apartment, a generous two hours before they're due to open. He hands each of them a mug (coffee for Karen, tea for Colleen) and looks down at the laundry basket sitting at Colleen's feet.

“Can I use your machine, please?” She begs, gently setting aside her mug so she can heft the basket up on her hip, “I hate doing laundry at my place.”

“Yeah,” he nods, taking a generous sip of his own caffeine. It isn't the first time she's used his washer and drier, but she always looks just the wrong side of embarrassed to ask. “You know I don't care. Anytime, you're welcome to it.”

“I know, I know.” She grouses as she makes her way up to his apartment. “I just hate asking.”

“I know, I know,” he mocks kindly around a yawn as she disappears. Karen watches the both of them over the rim of her mug, inhaling the richness of Ward's very expensive coffee. “Okay,” he cajoles, allowing himself one more drink, “let's get to work.”

He and Karen drag the folding tables out of the backroom and to the sidewalk. They also set up three folding chairs, though they rarely get to sit down during the sales. Still, it's nice to pretend. Colleen skips down the stairs in time to help Karen deal with the chalkboard A-frame sign – he lets them decorate it with leaves in a sufficiently hipster-y style as he picks out plants for the sale.

It doesn't take long for him to fill up the tables with rows of succulents – plenty of echeveria in an array of colors, all lush and ready to find permanent homes – cacti – including a few Bunny Ears – and whatever other plants he thinks will catch someone's attention. The Purple Oxalis, in particular, is striking in the bright light; its thin, purple pinwheel leaves almost glisten in the morning sun. He's also included a few pots of the babies he harvested from his Mother of Thousands; the leaves have grown big enough to start sprouting plantlets of their own.

Groaning, he drops his chin to his chest and rolls his head to work out the unexpected ache in his neck. He links his hands and stretches his arms high, arching his back until he's almost positive his ribs are going to pop. A slight breeze kicks up, ruffling his hair, and Ward lets his eyes fall shut as he breathes deep in the early air. He's broken out of his meditation by a not quite muffled curse; he freezes and slowly turns his head to see his new neighbor hopping awkwardly in the middle of the street.

“Uh. Hey.” The kid says, face going red, like he's been caught staring, and Ward suddenly realizes he still has his hands flung clumsily in the air. He drops his arms to his sides, and the kid clears his throat. “Sorry. I'm Danny Rand,” he jerks his thumb in the direction of his tattoo shop behind them. His nails are painted with black polish. “That's my shop.”

“I'm Ward Meachum,” Ward holds out his hand for Danny to shake, which he does, with a warm, steady grip. “That's... my shop,” he gestures behind himself, and Danny nods a few times.

“Yeah, your girlfriend came by yesterday and introduced herself. She said you guys do sales like this a lot?” 

“That's right, we have them the first and third Saturday of the month. Some regulars come every time – I'm sorry, did you say girlfriend?” Ward has a momentary stroke as his brain catches up with the conversation, and Danny tugs the frayed sleeves of his red hoodie down over his hands.

“Pretty blonde girl? Brought us a cactus?”

“You mean Karen,” he says slowly, as realization dawns. “Karen is not my girlfriend. We are not dating. At all. She is my friend. Like, best friend. Well, her and Colleen both. And Jessica. The point is,” he shakes his head to cut off his own spiraling rambles. “I do not have a girlfriend. Or boyfriend,” he adds, just to see what happens. If he's going to be friendly with Danny, he might as well get an honest read on him.

“Cool,” Danny stops fiddling with his sweatshirt cuffs, and a flush spreads across his cheeks as he grins. “Cool, okay. Yeah, same. I mean –”

“Danny!” Karen leans out the open door of the shop, hanging onto the frame with one hand, as she smiles. “Hi, good morning! How are you? Ward,” she addresses him before Danny has the chance to respond. “Do you want to bring out the swap shelf or not?”

“How full is it?” He tries to remember, because even though he sees the thing multiple times a day, he's developed a selective blindness to it.

“Not very,” she wiggles her free hand in the air, and he shakes his head. “Okay, cool – Colleen, he said to leave it!” she calls over her shoulder, disappearing back into the store. Ward stares after her for a beat, then rolls his eyes fondly as he settles into one of the folding chairs.

“What's the swap shelf?” Danny asks, his hands jammed nervously in the pockets of his distressed jeans. (Ward squints at him – the scuffs and tears seem to be naturally occurring, not artfully manufactured, so he determines that he doesn't completely hate them.)

“It's something we've been doing for over a year – people bring in plants that they can't care for anymore, and we look after them, make sure they get watered, keep them reasonably healthy, until someone wants to take them home...” Fully aware that he's slipping into Plant Dad Mode, he trails off and rubs his hands together self-consciously. He usually doesn't have an issue talking about his plants and his shop, waxing poetic about the benefits of different soil compositions and the intricacies of certain propagation techniques, but something about his new neighbor puts him on edge. The too tight skin feeling returns, and Ward shrugs, glancing at Danny with trepidation.

“That's so cool,” he nods to himself, another unexpectedly dazzling smile on his face. His ears are gauged, Ward realizes, with small, black Obsidian plugs that glint in the sunlight. “You really have a whole community here, don't you?” He looks around the street with wonder, and Ward exhales with a short laugh.

“Stick around, you'll get to see for yourself.”

Customers start showing up shortly before 10, and Ward hoists himself out of his chair. Karen props the door to the shop open, and Colleen puts on one of her playlists – something synthy and poppy – so that the music spills across the sidewalk. He moves through their patrons, offering some advice but generally just being available for questions and assistance. Danny stays longer than Ward expected; he stands off to one side, observing the chaos of a Saturday Sidewalk Sale without getting in anyone's way. Their eyes catch throughout the morning, and Ward finds himself ducking away, suddenly timid. He misses the way Danny bites his lip, sly in response to his shyness.

He's in the middle of explaining how to care for a Buddha's Temple (a weird little succulent, even by his standards, with leaves, shaped like four-pointed stars, stacked neatly on top of each other in a lush, emerald tower – very susceptible to over watering) when Colleen leaps on top of a folding chair. She wobbles for a moment and catches herself on Karen's shoulder with a generous laugh.

“Hi everyone! Hello!” She waves, and the crowd quiets. “Thanks for coming out this morning – we're so glad you're here! As you may be aware, Dryad & Co. is turning two years old next month!” A few people cheer, and she's emboldened by their enthusiasm as she winks in his direction. Ward strongly considers crawling under a table. “To say thank you for all your support, we're going to be planning something extra special for the first sidewalk sale in April!” 

She pauses, and he can see her mentally evaluating how much information to reveal, “so check our Instagram and Facebook for more details! We'll see you on the fourth!” With a dramatic bow, she hops off the folding chair, Karen lending her shoulder once again for stability. They smile at each other, open and guileless, and Ward clears his throat against the sudden rush of warmth he feels for them.

\- - -

Tuesday finds him and Colleen shuffling around an independent nursery just outside the city. They meander through the greenhouses, taking their time examining stock for the upcoming anniversary sale. It's the second nursery they've visited that day, and Ward struggles to keep his hands in his pockets as he peers over the fledgling plants. Colleen, for her part, is captivated by the rows of potted Lithops – she gazes down at their brown and green faces with a mesmerized glee in her eyes.

“They look like _brains_ , Ward. How cool is that?” He lopes over to her, still keeping his hands to himself, and studies the speckled succulents. They're stubby little growths, roughly the size of his thumb, standing proudly in the rocky soil. She isn't wrong – the living stones do look suspiciously like brains; their slightly speckled pattern mimics the wrinkles eerily well. “Can we get some for the shop? And also for me, please?”

“Why not,” he laughs, “add a few to the order. Just don't bankrupt me.” She triumphantly makes a note on her phone and wanders off, no doubt seeking out more strange plants to get. It's not a bad idea to diversify for the sale – entice people with rarer specimens. Ward tips his head back, takes in the smell of thriving greenery, and feels himself settle. They don't always visit their suppliers – he typically places orders online or over the phone, but it's nevertheless nice to peruse the merchandise in person. And it's good to get Colleen out of the city once in a while.

He turns his head, prepared to tell her just that – it's only fair; she teases him constantly and, privately, he thinks she gets a kick out him returning the favor – when he feels his phone vibrating in his pocket. Frowning, he swipes lazily across the screen with his middle finger to answer.

“Mr. Meachum, your father is here to see you,” Karen recites woodenly, before he can say anything, and his stomach drops. A rush of ice floods his veins, and his vision starts to white out with dread.

“I'm leaving now – I can be there in twenty minutes.” He's moving before he realizes, heading straight for Colleen and snagging her jacket. She brow furrows with confusion, and he shakes his head.

“Of course, Mr. Meachum.” Her response is flat, and he imagines her standing at the register, staring his father dead in the eye as she speaks. 

“If he tries anything – I swear to God, Karen. Lock yourself in my apartment. Right now,” Colleen's eyes widen in concern, her hand latching onto his wrist, as she stares up at him. 

“That won't be necessary, Mr. Meachum. I'll see you soon,” her voice catches just before she disconnects the call. He's numb, staring down at the dark screen of his phone. Colleen pulls gently on his arm, forcing him to meet her panicked gaze.

“Ward,” she says his name quietly, like she's soothing a wild animal. “What's wrong?”

“My father,” he reports blankly, his mind stuck on the hitch in Karen's voice; he feels like he's going to exist in that sound for the rest of his life – the skip, the scratch, the fear that managed to unsteady her at the last second. “He's at the shop,” and he hears that same unsteadiness in his own voice now as he drifts.

Her eyes go wet, and she swallows. “Ward,” she speaks deliberately, letting go of his wrist to slowly cup his face in her hands; her touch is cool against his suddenly fevered skin. “I can handle things here. You need to go.”

“I need to go,” he agrees.

“You need to go,” she repeats firmly, and his eyes snap to hers, “I will be right behind you, but you need to _go_.”

He goes.

The drive back to the shop is a blur – he assumes he obeys the basic rules of the road, but things go foggy as he navigates the familiar streets. He doesn't want to know what awaits him at the store – what destruction Harold has unleashed. His fingers drum against the steering wheel and he thinks he might be shaking. Harold has broken bones (Ward's bones, specifically, he remembers as phantom pains shudder through his arms) with ease. Terracotta pots won't stand a chance.

And Karen. He can't say that he'd blame her if she leaves and never comes back. If this is all too much. Sure, they're friends – even a family, maybe, though something claws at his heart if he lingers on that particular thought too long – but that doesn't mean she wants to face his psychotically violent father. Nor should she have to. She has her own past, her own demons, to wrangle – she's under no obligation to stand his down too. 

Ward takes a deep, shaking breath as he parks his car in the private lot behind the store, and flexes his hands.

Karen is in the corner behind the register; she's pressed herself against the wall as much as she physically can. Her wide, blue eyes lock onto him as soon as he's through the door and she exhales, long and shaky and slow. Harold is idling around the store, humming to himself as he ponders the plants in the front window. Ward ignores him and goes to Karen immediately, blocking her from view with his body.

“Go upstairs,” he says, low and steady, “and lock the door.”

“I am not leaving you down here,” her mouth barely moves. “Not with him.”

“Karen,” he doesn't have an argument to convince her – none that she would accept anyway, and her stare is fierce when she looks at his face. “Please.”

“If you touch him,” Karen pronounces, defiant and loud. Harold doesn't even glance at her. “I will _beat_ your ass. Be safe, Ward,” she lays her hand on his, where it's balled on the register desk, and passes around him to slip upstairs. She's clutching her kitty key chain from Jessica in her fist. He tries to memorize the touch of her skin on his – the reassurance, the grace, the protective fury.

“Sweet girl,” Harold comments, picking up a Hoya Kerrii and raising his eyebrows at the heart-shaped leaves growing on its vines, “bit too familiar for my tastes. You really let your employees use your first name?” He sets the plant down harder than necessary, jostling some soil onto the table. Ward tries to hide how his flinches at the sound, but he doesn't succeed. His father can always see his tells.

“What do you want, Dad?” He manages to inject just enough exhausted insolence into the question that his urge to _run, flee, hide_ is smothered.

“Pretty too,” he continues, as if Ward hasn't said a word. It's a favorite tactic of his – not much has changed in two years. “I see why you keep her around. How old is she anyway? Doesn't matter – she didn't seem too fond of me,” he laughs, and Ward clenches his jaw, refusing to take the bait. This is another one of Harold's preferred methods – talk through bullshit he doesn't even care about, just to see how his son reacts to the barbs. He points at a Tradescantia Zebrina and asks, “what's this one called?” as he rubs its dark green and white striped leaves.

“Dad –”

“Son, don't you think you've carried on long enough?” He sighs, disappointed and put-upon, “I mean, honestly, how long do you think you can keep this up? Aren't you tired?” Ward swallows, throat clicking, as Harold pauses in his pacing to study an Echeveria Purple Pearl. “I know I am,” he glances at him suddenly, a shark's smile fixed on his face, and looks back down at the succulent just as quickly. He runs a finger over one of its tender purple-gray leaves, a calculating gleam in his otherwise empty eyes. “I think it's time you came back.”

“Came back? To what – to your company? Dad, are you _insane_?”

“Honestly, Ward, you've made your point. You were bored – you wanted to try something different.” He rolls his gaze distastefully over the store. “And this is about as different as it gets, but it's time you came back. Really son, you should be proud of yourself. I'm surprised you stuck it out for this long. But, two years is a long time to be getting your door kicked in.”

“And what would you know about that?” He snipes, crossing his arms over his chest, before he can stop himself.

“Nothing, of course,” Harold tilts his head, back to studying the echeveria. Ward desperately wants to rush over and snatch it away from him, but he's still frozen behind the register. “But it is awfully lucky they never touched the windows, isn't it? Must not have wanted to destroy your sign. That would've been too cruel. Aren't you grateful, Ward? That they weren't cruel?” He plucks the leaves off, one by and one, as his voice slips – goes quiet like a knife – and Ward feels his eyes burn. The terror is familiar – sinking its claws into the meat of him as it spider crawls up his spine – and he clenches his hands into fists, until his palms sting and his knuckles go white.

“I'm sorry sir, if you're going to mistreat the plants, I'm going to have to ask you to leave.” Colleen stands in the doorway between the backroom and the shop floor, a baseball bat propped over her shoulder. Harold turns, absolutely delighted by her sudden arrival, and raises his eyebrows. She must have come in through the backdoor, but Ward didn't even hear her approach.

“Is that so?” He drawls, stepping away from the butchered echeveria. Colleen shifts, planting her feet, and points the bat at the front door.

“That's so. I think it's time for you to leave. _Sir_.” Harold laughs and reaches for his wallet in his suit jacket; he takes out a fifty and offers it to her.

“For the damages,” he gestures with his hand, trying to entice her to take it, and Colleen doesn't move – doesn't even blink – as she holds her stance. “Fine then,” he tucks it back in his wallet, his wallet in his jacket, and his hands in his pockets. She follows him with her eyes as he resumes humming to himself and saunters out into the sunlight. 

They wait until they're sure he's left, and then Ward is leaning forward, bracing his hands on his knees, as he takes desperate gulps of air. Colleen leans the bat against the wall and settles her hand on his back.

“Colleen? Ward?” Karen calls from upstairs, “is he gone? Are you guys okay?”

“Yeah, he's gone,” Colleen says, rubbing between Ward's shoulder blades. “We're okay. Are you okay?”

“I'm okay,” Karen assures them, joining them behind the register. “We're all okay.”

Karen and Colleen help him sit down on the floor, bracketing him on either side with their sweetness, as he clings to them with tremors wracking his body. His ribs are tight with humiliation, but Karen is smoothing his hair out of his eyes and Colleen's hands are warm through the fabric of his shirt. He's dizzy, feverish, and freezing, and an agonizing thrum is building inside his skull.

But they're okay.

They're all okay.

Karen makes the executive decision to close the store early – she locks the door and kills the lights as Colleen and Ward shuffle to the backroom. Sighing deeply, she gazes down at the Echeveria Purple Pearl. “Let's see what we can do about you,” she whispers, taking its pot in both hands, and heads to the backroom to perform a little botanical surgery.

“How bad is it?” Ward asks miserably, his head in his hands. His mouth is dry, and his head is pounding – Colleen had given him a bottle of water to drink, but he can't muster the energy to do anything but stare down at the table.

“Not bad at all,” Karen trills, gently setting the plant down on the counter. “I think we can get the leaves to sprout roots, and we'll have baby pearls in no time.”

“That's good,” he mumbles. Colleen picks up the bottle of water and opens it for him – holds it out and forces him to take it in his hand. “Thanks.”

“Drink,” she tells him, patting his mussed up hair. “You'll feel better.”

He takes a few sips, mostly to placate her, but he does feel more grounded. Wrung out and strung out, but grounded. “Karen,” he croaks, “did he do anything to you?”

“No,” she says quickly, her voice firm, “just asked me to call Mr. Meachum and let him know that his father was here. Then he just... walked around. Looked at the plants.” Karen wraps her arms around herself, leaning her hip into the counter as she turns to look at him. “Your dad is an asshole, Ward. But that is not your fault.”

“I was so worried – I thought he was going to hurt you or –”

“Your dad is an asshole, Ward.” She crosses the room to kneel on the floor in front of his chair. Colleen watches without saying a word. “But that is not your fault. And I am sorry that you grew up with a man like that for a father.”

“Why didn't you go upstairs? You didn't have to stay down there with him.”

“I wasn't about to leave him alone with our plants,” she tries to smile, though her lips tremble as her eyes fill with tears, as she links their fingers together. “Who knows what he would have done?”

“You are more important than the plants.” He looks at Colleen, reaching for her with his free hand, “both of you are. You are my family. And if he comes back – if he comes near either of you, just run. Go. I don't care what happens to the shop – I won't let him hurt you.”

“We're not going to let him hurt you either, Ward.” Colleen promises, solemnly, squeezing his hand tightly in hers. “The Dryad Triad looks out for their own.” Karen laughs wetly and shakes her head, as Ward scoffs in irritation.

“I guess I can't stop you, then,” he sniffs, “God, he really is an asshole.”

“A huge asshole,” Colleen confirms.

They stay like that, holding hands in the backroom of Dryad & Co, for a while. Colleen's most recent Chill Plant Vibes playlist is on, and Ward lets the soft music settle into his bones.

(Eventually, Karen texts Jessica, who comes over with pizza and an offer to stomp the holy hell out of his dad. He laughs, informs her that she'll have to get in line after Karen. Both Colleen and Jessica are impressed when he tells them how she threatened Harold to his face – said she would _beat his ass_ – without even blinking. Karen's cheeks flush, but she stands firm that she would do it again. He remembers to ask Colleen where she got the baseball bat – “I keep it in my car, Ward, what kind of woman do you take me for?”)

\- - -

They stumble through the rest of the week, somehow managing to get actual work done despite the lingering sting of Harold's unexpected visit. Marci confirms his order for the anniversary sale and sends him photos of options. He largely defers to her creative vision and tells her so. “You're a sweetheart, Ward Meachum,” she teases over the phone, “don't worry. Malcolm and I will have everything ready – see you on the fourth, honey.”

He trades messages with Katie, tightening his vision for the Plant Pride Pins; Colleen and Karen are both thrilled with the concept when he shows them her sketches. They also come up with a solid plan for the anniversary giveaway. Karen talks him through it – they can run a raffle during the sale and have people write down their name, contact information, and favorite plant on slips of paper.

“What if we start the raffle Wednesday before the sale,” he asks, carefully repotting a Rattlesnake Plant; its stiff leaves, patterned with both dark and light green, rustle as he places it into the soil of its new home. “Give people more time to enter.”

Colleen nods, holding her phone over a few pots of Blue Sky Echeveria, all clustered together in geometric spirals of red edged, blue-gray leaves. She snaps a couple pictures, testing different angles until she's satisfied. “We're giving away a free plant, right?”

“As long as it's under a hundred,” Ward confirms, packing the dirt around the roots of the Rattlesnake. “And a tote. Free plant and a free tote.”

“You said seventy-five before,” Karen points out around a mouthful of sandwich. (It's from the same deli where they celebrated his birthday – she always orders the caprese on focaccia with extra pesto aioli.) 

“I'm feeling generous,” he jokes, holding up the newly potted plant and smiling at it. “Isn't that right?”

“He's talking to the plants again,” Colleen whispers to Karen, like he can't hear them.

“As long as they don't talk back, I think we're okay.”

Colleen makes a snappy graphic, advertising the details of the raffle, and Karen decorates a spare pot to use for the tickets. The ceramicist, Candace, emails him pictures of her progress as she fires the planters he ordered – they're all hand-thrown, with beautiful speckled clay and smooth lines of white glaze. Jessica stops by a few times with food, and she watches him with something shrewd and unknowable on her face as he picks at the bounty of tacos or potstickers or whatever else she foists upon them. 

Suddenly, it's Friday, and Danny Rand is standing in his shop's doorway, haloed by the late afternoon sun. He's wearing his typical uniform of red hoodie, graphic t-shirt, abused jeans.

“Well, hello sailor,” Colleen catcalls under her breath from the register; Ward shoots her a stricken look as Karen snorts into her phone.

“Hey guys!” He greets the three of them, excited and oblivious, as his curls gleam honey bright. “How's it going?”

“It is going so well, Danny,” Colleen smiles, and Ward starts mentally listing the benefits of murdering her, “how are you and your fellow optimists?”

“Oh, we're good,” he scratches at the back of his neck, unintentionally hiking his shirt up in the process. Ward does his dead level best to keep his eyes on his face. “We were actually thinking – well hold on. Are you guys doing anything tonight after closing?” They all glance at each other before mutely shaking their heads. “Okay, cool. So, do you want to get drinks together? All of us?”

Ward immediately feels Colleen and Karen glancing at him, and he takes a deep breath. He's never hidden his struggle with addiction from them, and they know what what it would mean to go to a bar – how uncomfortable and out of place he would feel. But this is a chance to get to know their neighbors, and it would be a waste to turn that down over something stupid like a recovering addiction. He sees Karen shift, about to open her mouth to answer, when he intercedes.

“Sure, Danny, let's do it.” His voice is even, not a hint of his inner turmoil peeking through. He hasn't been to a bar since he opened the shop – despite the constant need burning under his skin, he doesn't want to see what kind of person he might become if he goes back. And Colleen, Karen, and Jessica (especially Jessica, surprisingly) are all willing to find other ways to hang out together.

“But we're picking the place!” Colleen blurts out, and Ward decides she can live. “Since you guys are new to the area and everything,” she amends, sounding slightly less frantic, “it's only fair. Let us show you some place cool.”

“Sure, yeah, whatever you want,” Danny bounces on his feet eagerly. “But first round's on me, okay?”

“Oh absolutely,” Karen laughs, “I'm going to invite our friend, Jessica – she's really fun. You'll like her.” Ward tries not to choke at her baldfaced lies, as she taps on her phone with laser focus, absolutely refusing to meet his disbelieving stare. Danny bobs his head, agreeable and earnest, unaware of the silent conversations happening around him.

“We'll probably be ready by half past nine – does that work for you and Claire?” Colleen informs him, ever the mediator.

“Probably, I'll let you know if we need more time. Frank's coming to – you haven't met him yet, he's our piercer. He's still working at his old shop, but he's gonna join the team once my place is ready. He's... nice.” Danny trails off, his uncertain mouth twisting as he narrows his eyes, “I mean, no. Frank is a good guy, I trust him.”

“That is a ringing endorsement, and I must meet him.” Colleen announces solemnly, folding her hands in front of her on the register counter. Danny relaxes with a laugh, rubbing at the back of his head self-consciously.

“He is a good guy – he helped me out when I was going through some stuff, and now we're best buds.” Danny freezes, “but don't tell him I said that. He's a little murdery sometimes. But he's still really nice!”

“He's your Jessica,” Karen surmises primly.

“Oh Jesus,” Danny wheezes.

\- - -

The Dryad Triad is ready by half past nine, as Colleen promised. She and Karen flee to their respective apartments (they've been considering the idea of moving in together once their leases are up; he has offered many times to help them apartment hunt) as soon as the shop door is locked, and Ward heads upstairs for a private meltdown.

He permits himself a fifteen minute shower, during which he hyperventilates into an alarming numbness. It is one evening, just a few hours, and he will not be alone. He will have people who support him, who care about him, who will leave early with him if he just has to get out. Besides, the store opens early (at ten am, which is not early) on Saturdays! Perfect excuse if he needs to bail. No, this isn't a panic attack, the shop just needs looking after.

When Colleen and Karen return to the shop, he has managed to put himself back together. They both look lovely (though he always thinks that); Karen is wearing a vibrant green, lacy sundress with a pristine white denim jacket, and Colleen has on black skinny jeans with an artfully loose, shimmery cream tank top. Ward examines his own outfit – dark wash jeans and a dark gray button up – before glancing up at them for approval.

“Very slick, boss,” Colleen compliments, linking her arm with his. He rolls his eyes, holding out his free elbow for Karen to slip her hand through. “Jessica's going to meet us at the bar, by the way. Said she was caught up with work stuff, but should be free soon.”

“Jessica actually works?” Ward asks in jest, and Karen shakes her head in amusement. Colleen stops them just as they reach the side walk on to other side of the street.

“I'm only going to say this once,” she lets go of his arm and stands in front of him, her dark eyes piercing and somber. “If you want to leave at all tonight, let us know. I don't care if it's twenty minutes after we get to the bar – if you want to leave, Ward, we are leaving. No questions asked, no excuses needed.” She pauses, lets him breathe, but does not break eye contact. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he tilts his head with a quiet smile, biting back any protest or verbal maneuvering, “thanks.” Karen rubs his arm, eyes glittering, and whatever sentimental acknowledgment he has for their support is interrupted by an excited – 

“Hey, you're here!” Danny comes barreling out the front door of The Eternal Optimist, still wearing his jeans and hoodie. He's swapped out his Obsidian ear plugs for a set of polished Tiger's Eye plugs that glimmer in the meager light of the streetlamps. “Oh shit, you guys look good – should I change?”

“You look fine,” Colleen comforts him, swinging her high ponytail over her shoulder, “the place we're going is pretty chill – we just wanted to dress up.”

“Okay, well, if I get kicked out, I'm blaming you.” Danny laughs, jamming his hands in his sweatshirt pockets. “Oh, you guys know Claire,” he indicates the woman behind him; she smiles warmly at them and eyes Ward with a suspicious amount of mirth, which Danny immediately notices, as he continues hastily, “and this is Frank,” he nods at the man just exiting the tattoo parlor. He's not much taller than Danny, but he's built – broad shouldered under his black t-shirt – and his biceps are covered in tattoos. Ward glances at Karen, who's face has gone conspicuously pink.

“Well,” he says finally, shoulders hunched, “I'm Ward. That's Colleen and this is Karen. Our friend, Jessica, is going to meet us at the bar.”

“It's nice to finally meet all of you,” Claire remarks, her voice smooth as she tucks her hands inside the sleeves of her gray sweater. “And thank you for the cactus – that was very sweet of you. Wasn't it sweet, Danny?”

“Just the sweetest,” he agrees quickly, and Frank smirks at him. “Okay, so where are we going?”

They lead the group to the next street over and south a few blocks to Luke's – a neighborhood bar, so named for its owner, which offers only good times and no pretension. Ward has never been, but Colleen and Karen have gone a few times with Jessica; they have assured him that Luke Cage is a decent guy, plus he has bombass root beer on tap.

“On tap!” Karen is in the middle of explaining to Claire and Frank (who both look equal parts amused and skeptical), “that's what I'm having first – Ward, are you with me?”

“Root beer on tap, you got it,” he confirms, like he's doing her a favor. “I'll even buy.”

“No, you won't,” Danny points at him, clearly offended, “first round's on me, remember?” His bright blue eyes spark with mischief, and Ward raises his hands in defeat.

“All right, all right. I won't turn down a free drink,” the words feel false in his mouth, like he's performing a pantomime of his past self, but he puts on a smile regardless, scuffing his shoes on the concrete as they walk. Colleen whips out her phone just before they go into the bar, forcing them to crowd together under the neon lights.

“Just one,” she begs, even as Frank narrows his eyes in a scowl. Claire smacks him good-naturedly on the shoulder. “Before we get all sloppy! Ward, give me your noodle arms.” He indulges her, holding her phone as they squeeze into the frame – he feels like an expert now, from all the time she's forced him to take group photos – and snaps a few shots. 

They're clumped together – he and Karen are on the outside, with Danny between them; their arms are slung all around each other, and Ward can feel the warmth of Danny's fingers brushing against his sleeve. Frank is standing behind Karen, stiff with his hands in his pockets, but he doesn't look too annoyed. Claire is beside him, propping her elbow on his shoulder with a wink, and Colleen has her chin resting comically on Ward's head. (She was standing on the tippiest of her tiptoes; he could feel her wobbling against him as he took the pictures.)

Colleen accepts her phone with grace and immediately thumbs through the shots. “Okay, we all look adorable, this is great. Danny, does your shop have an Instagram?” She finds The Eternal Optimist easily and instantly follows them. Consulting with Karen, she picks the best picture from their impromptu photo shoot and uploads it to Dryad & Co.'s feed.

“The Dryad Triad is so excited to welcome The Eternal Optimist,” she pauses in her recitation to tag their account, “to the neighborhood! They're opening soon, so make sure you stop in to say hi! Hashtag support local businesses. Hashtag small business solidarity. Hashtag new best friends.”

“The Dryad Triad,” Frank repeats dryly, swinging the bar door open for all of them.

“It's our street gang,” Karen tilts her head up to waggle her eyebrows at him as she ducks under his arm. “We're very dangerous, so watch out. Colleen even has a baseball bat.”

“And I will use it!” She cackles over her shoulder, leading them to a spot near the back of the bar. They bunch into a booth, knocking their elbows into each other as they squeeze together. Ward is the last to sit down, and Danny hovers near the table.

“What does everyone want?” They waste a few minutes squabbling over the drink menu – Frank settles on the Strong Arrogant Bastard Ale; Colleen asks for McKenzie's Black Cherry Cider; Danny and Claire both want the Industrial Arts Wrench IPA, but Danny goes for the Brooklyn the Defender IPA instead, because they're all going to share anyway. (Frank insists that he is not going to share with any of them.)

Ward follows him to the bar to help carry the drinks; he manages to navigate through the crowd while staring at the back of Danny's head. He tries to pretend that he doesn't feel like an imposter, like everyone can see through his facade.

The bartender greets them with an easy smile when they finally reach him. “Hey guys, how's it going?” He tilts his head, “wait – you're Ward Meachum, aren't you? You own the plant shop!”

“Yes?” Ward finds himself drawing back.

“Oh, sorry, I just recognize you from Colleen's posts on Instagram – plus Jessica talks about you a lot.”

“Colleen posts about you on Instagram?” Danny asks, “are you Insta-famous, Ward?” He leans in close, his voice conspiratorial.

“God, no,” he groans, and the bartender laughs. “I put her in charge of social media for the shop – I some have regrets in my life.”

“She does a great job, man,” the bartender assures him, “I'm Luke Cage, by the way – welcome!” He reaches across the bar to shake their hands.

“Danny Rand,” Danny introduces himself, “my tattoo parlor is across the street from Ward's shop – we should be opening pretty soon. God willing.” He laughs, rubbing bashfully at the back of his neck. “This place is awesome – the beer selection is insane!”

“Thanks,” Luke accepts the compliment with confidence, like he knows his bar is awesome and doesn't need anyone to tell him so. “I worked pretty hard to make it that way. I figure if I wanted to have a good bar, I gotta have good drinks, right? Speaking of, what can I get you?”

Danny rattles off their order, including root beers for Ward and Karen, with ease, which makes Ward wonder if he once worked at a bar himself. Luke nods, ringing them up on the register, “do you want to open a tab or close out?”

“I'll go ahead and pay now,” he fishes his wallet out of his jeans – it's worn, like everything else he owns – and retrieves his card. “Thanks man.”

“No problem – just give me a second.” Luke heads off to get their drinks, and Danny props himself up on the bar with his elbow, angling close to Ward. He notices for the first time that the backs of his hands are tattooed with clusters of red roses, and he tries not to stare.

“Not bad, huh?” Danny glances down at his own hands, “Claire did them for me.” Ward leans in for a closer look – it's hard to make out much detail in the low light of the bar, but the lines are crisp and the shading is even. There are three on each hand, surrounded by leaves and packed with color. From a botanical perspective, they are perhaps not the most accurate, but they're beautiful all the same. Ward stops himself from tracing over the curving petals with his fingers.

“Yeah, she did a great job,” he agrees, fully aware that he has no idea what constitutes a 'great job' for tattoos, which he's sure Danny knows – he tries to suppress the prickliness that comes from feeling out of his depth. “How many do you have?”

Danny squints, scratching at his head with an embarrassed smile, “well, you see, I don't actually know. Not that I have so many that I can't count, but more like I don't know how to count them? Okay so, like, these,” he holds his hands out in front of him, “I got one at a time – do I count them as separate tattoos, even though I planned them as a pair? And, also this whole thing,” he pushes up the sleeve of his hoodie on his left arm to reveal a chaotic geometry of hard angles, stippling dots, and splashes of frantic red, “stared with this little dude.” 

He rests his arm on the bar, palm up, to indicate a dodecahedron about three inches above his wrist. Small lines of dots extend from each of its points, to form a larger, phantom dodecahedron layered on top of the original. It's surrounded by heavier lines of black and dashes of crimson. “I got this first, and then built the bigger design around it like a year later. But do I count it separately? I'm not sure, man. They all feel connected.” Ward peers down at the design, wishing he could fully appreciate the artistry. He didn't use to mind the shadowy darkness of bar life – the dim amber made it easier to blend in with his misery, numbed and blurred by the expensive booze he was too drunk to fully enjoy – but now it's just a nuisance. An impediment.

Ward doesn't realize he's been silently staring at Danny's arm for much longer than is probably acceptable, until Danny shifts and pulls his sleeve back down. “Sorry,” he mumbles, tugging on the frayed cuff of his hoodie, “that's probably more than you were looking for.”

“No, it's okay,” Ward draws back, aiming for sincere (Jessica has told him that he turns into a dick when he gets anxious, which takes one to know one, Jess.) but likely falling short. “That's amazing – I get it. You're clearly passionate about tattoos. It's okay,” he finishes lamely, biting on the inside of his cheek. He's about to tell him about his ritual of greeting the plants good morning and wishing them good night at the open and close of every day, when Luke brings them their drinks.

“Here you go – you guys need any help?” Danny eyes the glasses with a fierce determination that has Ward shaking his head.

“I think we'll manage – thanks Luke.” Luke smiles, slaps his hand on the bar once, and heads off to help other customers. “Back to the table, then?” Danny responds with a big smile (everything he does it big – laughs, smiles, hugs probably) and fits his hands around half the glasses. Ward takes the remaining three, and they make it back to the table.

“Thank you, Danny!” Colleen sings when Ward places her drink in front of her, “oh, yeah, thanks Ward. But thank you Danny! To new neighbors and new friends!” They all clink glasses and take generous gulps. “Oh shit, this is good. Do you want to try?” She holds it out to Claire, who takes a sip.

She raises her eyebrows, “that is good. I should order cider more – I always forget how much I like it.” Colleen laughs, and thus begins the ritual of sharing and tasting each other's drinks. Ward and Karen are content to watch and, while Frank doesn't try anyone else's, he permits them a few sips of his ale. Colleen even reaches for Ward's root beer with her eyes wide and pleading.

“Fine,” he nudges the glass in her direction, and she shimmies happily as she takes a drink.

“Claire was just telling us about her apprenticeship,” Karen tells him, eyes glittering as she sets her root beer back on the table.

“Misty Knight!” Danny exclaims happily, and Frank snorts at his antics. “Hell of a woman.”

“This won't mean anything to the rest of you,” Claire shrugs apologetically at the Dryad Triad, “but I apprenticed with Misty Knight – she's incredibly talented. Very well known in the tattoo world.”

“Her floral work is the best,” Danny explains, “I'm so jealous.”

“Oh, did she teach you how to...?” Ward points at the back of his hands to indicate Danny's roses, and Claire nods.

“She taught me everything. I showed her my portfolio, and she took me in. I worked for her for about two years before joining her shop as an official artist. Hardest two years of my life,” she laughs, “but I learned so much from her.” She pulls up the sleeve of her sweater and angles her left arm under the light above their table. “She gave me this before I moved – it's a Flor de Maga, the national flower of Puerto Rico.” The hibiscus takes up almost her entire forearm, from wrist to elbow, in dazzling reds and oranges.

“Oh my God, Claire – that's beautiful,” Karen leans closer, her voice soft with wonder.

“Thanks,” she shrugs, much more assured than Danny was when Ward had examined his tattoo. “You guys don't have any, do you?”

“I want one,” Colleen answers immediately, “so bad. Oh my God, I want one so bad.”

“Oh yeah?” Claire is instantly interested. She wraps her hands around the cold glass of her beer and raises her eyebrows. Colleen's face goes pink under her stare. “Talk me through it, let's make a plan.”

“Well, now that I've seen yours and – here, gimme,” she holds out her palms, wiggling her fingers, until Danny hesitantly reaches for her. She holds his hands in hers, studying the rose blooms, “you did these, right Claire?” Claire nods, her amused smile hidden behind her fist. “I mean, floral is kind of speaking to me.” She releases Danny, and he settles back in the booth. “My mom is Singaporean-Chinese, and I want to find a way to honor her, too.”

“Vanda Miss Joaquim,” Ward reports, putting his phone on the table, face up, and spinning it so she can see. “National flower of Singapore.” They all crowd around the small screen to look at the purple and white orchid.

“Did you know that off the top of your head, Plant Dad?” Karen teases as Colleen scrolls through the pictures he pulled up.

“No,” he admits, “I had to look it up. Flowers are not my forte.” (He's grateful that Colleen's distracted, because he's sure she would have used that for her next Ward Quote of the Week.)

“Plant Dad,” Danny repeats, and Ward dies just a bit.

“He knows a lot about plants – he'll sometimes rattle off facts about plant care without even realizing.” Karen explains, her voice apologetic as she glances guiltily at him from under her eyelashes. “It's actually very sweet.”

“Oh my God,” he dies a lot more. Karen and Colleen both look like they have more to say – they never miss an opportunity to harass him – but they hold back. He knows it isn't easy for them; they have hours of Plant Dad Ward stories.

“You're clearly passionate about plants – it's okay,” Danny reassures him, shrugging one shoulder fondly. Ward grins, catching his lower lip between his teeth, as he ducks his head.

“What about you, Karen?” Claire asks, “ever wanted to get a tattoo? Now's the time for a free consultation.” She twists a lock of hair around her fingers, ponderous.

“I don't think I'd ever get one – well,” she tilts her head, pursing her lips in thought, “never say never. But I don't feel the need right now. I think I'd much rather get a piercing. They're –”

“Less permanent?” Frank interjects, tilting his empty glass in his hands and balancing it on the edge of its base. Claire shoots him an exasperated look, and Danny rolls his eyes to the ceiling.

“No,” Karen refutes, tossing her hair over her shoulder and leaning forward to meet his frown with a cheery smile. “I was going to say _versatile_. Sure, once it's done, it's not moving – or at least it shouldn't. But the jewelry options are pretty open. Not that I need to justify anything to you, anyway.” Colleen snaps her fingers appreciatively, and Frank smirks.

“All right, all right.” He raises his hands in defeat. “You're not wrong.”

“Please forgive him,” Claire enunciates, fixing him with a laser stare. “He wasn't properly socialized as a child.” Ward nervously watches them snipe at each other and relaxes only when Frank laughs in self-aware disbelief. Claire reaches over, shoving at his shoulder, and he accepts the abuse with a good-natured head shake. 

The conversation ebbs and flows; Colleen ruminates aloud on potential tattoo designs, while Claire encourages and redirects in equal measure. Frank has his head ducked close to Karen, and she's laughing at whatever he's telling her. Ward looks down at his glass and notes its emptiness.

“I'm getting another – Karen?” She lays her hand over her own glass and shakes her head. “Anyone else?” Colleen lunges for the drink menu.

“I want something else, but I don't know what – you go ahead, Ward.”

He extricates himself from the booth and crosses to the bar. The crowd has picked up, but he manages to find one open stool. He perches there, drumming his thumbs against his empty glass, and waits for Luke. The press of people is hot and a little suffocating. Someone jostles him from behind, almost sending him tumbling to the sticky floor; he catches himself and narrowly dodges someone else's elbow to his sternum. Clenching his eyes shut, he tries to take a deep breath.

When he was tucked back in the booth with the others, he was able to avoid the reality of the situation. But now, with the heat and noise of everyone squeezing around him, he can't escape – literally and figuratively. He is in a bar, and it is far too loud. Ward swallows thickly against the panic in his throat and sets his glass on the counter. Right, time to abort.

He turns to head back to his friends and immediately stumbles as another customer tries to take his spot at the counter. Firm hands grab onto his arms, steadying him, and he glances down, disappointed to find them bare and not decorated with roses.

“You all right, man?” He looks at the rest of the body attached to the hands holding onto him – tall, blonde, pretentious haircut, expensive dark wash jeans with a red and black plaid flannel – and narrows his eyes.

“I'm fine,” Ward takes a step back, intentionally disentangling himself. He injects a little venom into his voice, rolling his shoulders to take full advantage of his not inconsiderable height. Anxiety is still simmering under his skin, prickling at his nerves and constricting his lungs, but if there's one thing he's learned from his father, it's how to bury his fight or flight response.

“Yeah, real convincing,” Haircut laughs, reaching out to smooth over the collar of Ward's shirt; he flinches out from under his groping fingers, scowling disdainfully. “Let me buy you a drink – make up for almost knocking you over.”

“That's not necessary,” He grinds out through his clenched jaw, scanning the bar in the hopes that he can catch Colleen's eye. There's nothing she loves more than inserting herself into uncomfortable situations and rescuing him.

“Come on,” his tone is friendly, but there's something dark buried in the words – something that says he doesn't like being rejected. Ice starts creeping up Ward's spine, as Haircut leans in close with a snake's smile. “I just want to get to know you. You're all alone – I can keep you company.”

“Not alone actually,” Ward flinches out of Haircut's reach when he tries to curl a hand around his hip. “I'm here with friends – can you not touch me, man?”

“Jesus, what is your problem?” He laughs, but it's nasty, and his gaze goes flat. Ward starts looking for a gap in the crowd so he can make a swift getaway. Haircut continues, intentionally oblivious, “I definitely think you need a drink now. Come on, what's your poison? I'll put it on my tab – whatever you want.”

“I'm telling you, I am not interested.” Ward spits, stepping away from him when he pushes closer. His cologne is overpowering, sticking to Ward's skin with bitter tackiness, and Ward swallows a gag. He's trapped; he's lost sight of his friends; no one is coming to bail him out. Inhaling sharply through his nose, he balls his hands into tight fists. “So back the fuck off.”

“You're really not good looking enough to be this bitchy,” Haircut points out, shrugging his shoulders with forced nonchalance and shaking his head in faux-disappointment. “I'm not surprised you're by yourself – I'm honestly doing you a favor. A drink would help you loosen up.”

“What in God's name is wrong with you – how many times do I have to say no? Leave me the hell alone.” Ward decides to just force his way out – there are too many people milling around, but he can't be here for a second longer. His heartbeat is a stuttering bassline pounding through his bones, and his vision is starting to spark electric white with panic. He tries to shove past him, when Haircut snags his arm in a bruising grip – his fingers dig deep into his skin, a sensation he is all too familiar with – and Ward cuts off a hiss of pain. “Are you _serious_ right now?” 

He sneers, and it's all teeth and malice. “I'm only trying to buy you a drink, and you're being an asshole about it. I think you owe me an apology.”

“Sounds like you're the one being an asshole,” Danny observes brightly from behind him, his eyes cold and his smile just the wrong side of toothy. “So how about you leave him alone, like he asked?” 

“Who the fuck are you?” Haircut mocks, incredulous, “his boyfriend?”

“That doesn't matter,” Danny keep his voice light and his smile wide as he shifts one foot back, opening up his chest and squaring his shoulders, “what does matter is your hand on his arm. So let go of him. Right now,” Haircut scowls, giving him a slow once over, and Danny raises his eyebrows. “Come on, man, make it easy for yourself.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Absolutely not, I think you're done here.” Haircut scoffs and relaxes his grip on Ward's elbow enough for him to wrench free. He forces himself not to rub the abused flesh as he backs up, refusing to look away from Haircut's angry stare. Danny angles around him, intentionally placing his body between the two of them. “You're done here,” he says again, quiet and dangerous.

“Fuck you,” he balls his hands into fists, and Ward is convinced he's about to throw a punch. Danny jerks his head to one side, a challenging sort of nod, and plants his feet, stance deceptively loose despite the tension coiling through his muscles. Haircut rolls his eyes, “whatever, just – fuck you, man.” He stalks off; Danny tracks him as he disappears into the crowd. He blinks, and his eyes thaw – the frigid irritation is gone, replaced by earnest concern, as he turns back to Ward.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” His hands hover in the air, just above his shoulders, as he searches Ward's face, “that guy was such a dick.”

“I'm fine,” he lies, still half looking for him among the mass of people pushing against them. He's shaking and his voice has gone sharp – Ward hates what anxiety does to him. His jaw ticks, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“Come on,” Danny loops an arm around his back and gently guides him through to the door, barely touching him through the fabric of his shirt. “Let's get some air. What even was his problem anyway?” 

There's a breeze kicking up outside, and Ward inhales deeply, lets the crisp night chill settle into his lungs. He gets the faintest taste of cigarettes and wrinkles his nose. The sky is a shifting, gray swirl of billowing, purple clouds and no stars – they have light pollution to thank for that, he supposes. He glances at Danny, who has his phone out; the neon sign of the bar casts red across his face, until he steps closer to Ward, into the glow of the street lamps.

“Just letting Claire know we stepped outside,” he says uselessly, sliding his phone into his back pocket. With a sigh, he tips his head back, staring up at the endless expanse above them. “Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light,” he muses, “I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.” Ward glances at him, and Danny meets his questioning stare with an embarrassed laugh. “It's from an old poem my mom liked.”

“Say it again,” Ward requests before he can stop himself, “please.”

“Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light,” he recites, his smile sad and his eyes shining, “I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.” His voice catches, and he has to look away, sniffing once, as he tries to steady his breath.

“I like it.” Ward comments after a long pause. He feels more at ease, standing in a hazy, yellow halo with Danny beside him. “Thanks for your help back there,” he says, looking at his shoes, under the pretense of giving Danny some privacy. It's really for himself; he doesn't like being in a position where he needs help – and that seems to be the default these days. He can't even face his own father without someone bailing him out. “I'm sorry you had to step in.”

“Don't apologize,” Danny contradicts firmly, “I'm sorry I wasn't there sooner – and I'm sorry he didn't listen to you, what the hell. I hate assholes like that – he didn't hurt you, did he?”

It's on the tip of his tongue to say that he's fine, and Ward laughs at himself with just a hint of derision. “I'll be all right,” he tucks his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “I can take a punch – my father made sure of that,” he says before he can stop himself and grimaces, almost afraid to look at him. The last thing he wants to see is pity. “It's okay –”

“It's not okay,” Danny's face has gone unimaginably soft, his mouth turned down with sorrow, and Ward gnaws on his lip. “I'm sorry that happened to you,” he says, like he doesn't need to know anything else, like Ward doesn't have to share more than he wants to. They slip into silence, because Ward doesn't know what else to say. His default is deflect, but he gets the feeling that Danny's too sincere for that.

He settles on a mumbled, “thanks,” and tilts his head back to look at the star muffled sky. Danny nods, his hands jammed in the pockets of his unzipped sweatshirt. The air starts to smell like rain. “How long have you been tattooing?”

“Hmm,” Danny hums, but allows the shift in subject. “About ten years. And I was an apprentice for two years before that. I can't believe I have my own shop now,” he laughs at himself, shaking his head in wonder, “it doesn't seem real.”

“I know that feeling,” Ward commiserates. “I'll let you know if it ever goes away.”

Danny barks out a laugh, “what about you? How long have you been in the plant business?”

“Two years,” he says, “I left my dad's company two years ago and never looked back.” He peeks at Danny from out of the corner of his eye. “Pretty fuckin' stupid, huh?”

“Not at all,” Danny's voice is quiet but emphatic, and he's staring at Ward like he's seeing him for the first time. “I think that's really brave, Ward. You should be proud of yourself.” He looks like he wants to say more, like he's just searching for the right words, when the bar door slams open behind them.

“Oh shit, whaddup!” 

“Hi Colleen,” he greets her with a deadpan stare. She laughs, bounding over to him and Danny with the rest of the group trailing after her.

“We're going to get pizza,” she tells him with a wide smile. “Want to come? Danny? Pizza?” Her ponytail swishes as she looks back and forth between the two of them. She isn't drunk – it takes more than one cider to get her anywhere near buzzed – but her eyes are lively with mirth. She's having fun. Danny seems to be considering the offer, while Ward checks his phone for the time; it isn't late, not exactly, but he's feeling a little too raw to indulge in further peopling.

“I think I'm going to bow out,” he breaks her heart gently, laying one hand heavily on her shoulder as she pouts. “Think of me fondly.”

“You're okay, though, right?” She keeps her voice low, peering up at him with a serious set to her face. “Like, you're all right?”

“I'm fine,” he tells her and, for the first time tonight, he means it. She leans into him, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist and squeezing. Maybe she is a little drunk, after all. “Okay, well, this is happening.”

“Come on, Colleen,” Karen helps him get untangled from her affectionate grasp, “let's get pizza.”

“It was great meeting all of you,” Ward tells the assembled Eternal Optimists, once he's free. “I'll see you later. You two –” he points at Karen and Colleen, who stand at attention, suppressed smiles on their faces, “text me when you get home, okay? I don't care what time it is.” (It's not something he's said to friends before. Colleen would say it on reflex after closing – “I'll text when I'm home.” – and then it became a part of his vernacular.)

“Yes sir – you do the same. Text when you're back at the shop.” Karen salutes him, and he nods.

“I think I'm going to skip out too – I'll walk back with you,” Danny glances at him – he might be blushing, but it's hard to tell under the amber of the streetlamp. Frank coughs into his fist to cover what is undoubtedly a snort of exasperation; Claire smacks him in the stomach. “Night gang – uh, text me when you get home?”

“Why?” Frank asks, and Claire smacks him again. Danny makes a desperate sort of hand spasm at them.

“Yes, Danny, we'll let you know. Have a good night, kid.”

Ward and Danny spend an awkward minute standing on the sidewalk, staring at each other, as the others cut down a side street in search of pizza. (He can hear Colleen and Karen laughing long after he's lost sight of them.) Danny jerks his head in the direction of their shops.

“Shall we?”

They lope down the street, walking in comfortable silence. Ward sneaks glances at Danny, trying not to get captivated by the way his eyes shine as they pass in and out of the streetlamps. (He thinks Danny is sneaking glances at him too, but he isn't sure. He hopes so.) He feels vulnerable and wistful under the rolling night sky. When they're a block away, Danny nudges his hand against Ward's. Smiling, suddenly shy, Ward locks his pinky around Danny's. After a beat, Danny fully tangles their fingers.

He hasn't been in a serious relationship since before rehab, and even then it had been just shy of toxic. There were a few dates after coming back to work, but they felt empty. Performative. Sex became transactional – just another way to leverage his body to accomplish his goals. (Or his father's goals.) It was expected of him. So he did it. He took beautiful people to beautiful restaurants and beautiful hotels, but the gaping wound inside his chest never healed. And then, Dryad & Co. took up all his time. And he had Karen and Colleen and Jessica, so what did he need romance for?

For this, apparently.

Because, when he and Danny slow to a stop in front of The Eternal Optimist, Danny is adorably reluctant to let go of him. He stares down at their joined hands, and bites down on his lower lip. Ward lets him tug him closer, until they're inches apart.

“Can I kiss you?” Danny's shy, rubbing their noses together, and Ward breathes in the spicy, warm scent of his skin. “Can I?”

“You can kiss me, Danny,” Ward whispers, taking the initiative himself and pressing their mouths together. Danny kisses like he does everything – with abandon, like he has unlimited kisses to give and he might as well start now. He lets go of Ward's hand – which suits Ward just fine, because he can finally touch Danny's hair, make an even bigger mess of his tangled curls – to hook his fingers in his belt loops. 

Danny kisses like he has nowhere else to be. 

Ward hums, deep in the back of his throat, as he licks into Danny's mouth; Danny wraps an arm around his waist, pulling him even closer, and Ward slides one hand down to grip at the back of his neck. They stumble together, until Danny has him bracketed against the door of the tattoo shop. He's not pushing, not pinning, just very insistent.

Danny's beard is deliciously rough against the sensitive skin of Ward's neck, and he's definitely going to leave a bruise with the way his teeth are scraping over his pulse. Ward takes a shuddering breath and settles his hands on Danny's shoulders.

“Hold on,” he whispers, pushing just a little. Danny immediately stops, drops his head to rest against Ward's clavicle. His breathing is heavy, and Ward runs his fingers through his curls; he seems to enjoy it, given the pleased shudder that runs through his frame. His pulse is a live wire under his skin, and his heart is slamming against his ribcage, as if to escape and find a home in Danny's chest. “You all right?” Danny nods, hair brushing Ward's chin. “Good, I'm all right too.”

They cling to each other for a moment, while Danny gets his breathing under control and Ward memorizes the heat of Danny's body pressing up against his. Finally, Danny takes a step back, looking rumbled and satisfied. He rakes his eyes over Ward, molasses slow and candy sweet, and his smile sharpens with a hint of teeth and pride.

“All right, all right,” Ward shoves him and Danny catches his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. “You've made your point.” The flush in his cheeks isn't abating, and the more Danny stares at him, the worse it becomes. “I should go.”

“Okay,” Danny acknowledges, not moving or letting go of his hand.

“I mean it.”

“Sure,” his blue eyes gleam.

“Really, we have a big order coming in tomorrow morning.”

“All right,” Danny nods, and Ward shakes his head, breaking free of his hold to cup his face between his palms and slot their mouths together for one last kiss. Danny grabs him around the waist as Ward smooths over his cheekbones with his thumbs. They're laughing into each other's mouths, grinning and happy. Finally, they break apart, breathless and pink, and Ward takes a few steps back.

“Good night, Danny Rand,” he calls as he walks backwards across the street, not ready to lose sight of him quite yet.

“Good night, Ward Meachum,” comes the shouted response, far too loud for the hour. Ward doesn't have the heart to shush him.

(His phone buzzes with a text from Jessica while he's getting ready for bed; she's messaged the group chat to apologize for missing drinks. Next time, she promises, she'll be there.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (shout out to [csi_sanders1129](https://archiveofourown.org/users/csi_sanders1129/pseuds/csi_sanders1129) for Danny's rose tattoos -- she asked for them, I delivered -- apparently it's a Game of Thrones reference, which I haven't seen or read, but here we are.)
> 
> the poem that Danny quotes is [The Old Astronomer](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Twilight_Hours_\(1868\)/The_Old_Astronomer) by Sarah Williams.


	3. third

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dryad & Co. celebrates her two year anniversary, the Dryad Triad are appropriately sappy about it, and Danny and Ward get to know each other a little better... a lot better... like so much better.

The next morning, he comes down to the shop to see a piece of paper half shoved under the front door. Ward starts laughing as soon as he opens the crumpled note. The handwriting is atrocious, which is altogether not unexpected. 

_Come up and see me sometime.  
xxx-xxx-xxxx_

Rolling his eyes, he plugs the number into his phone and sends off a quick text. ( **Some idiot left an unsigned note under my door. Wonder who it could be.** ) Giving into the rush of truly humiliating affection, he carefully refolds the note and tucks it into his jeans for safe keeping. Lord help him if he leaves it lying around for Karen or Colleen to find. He's not expecting an answer – certainly not this early – so he's pleasantly surprised when he feels his phone buzzing in his back pocket.

_It's me!_

and then

_Danny Rand!_

followed by

_I promise!_

and, finally, a hastily snapped photo of Danny, lying rumbled and squinty amid a mess of navy blue sheets. He's lying on his back, holding the phone above his face – his hair is particularly fluffy against his pillows, and he's beaming sleepily at his camera. He's shirtless, at the very least, and Ward can see his collarbones and the curves of his shoulders. There's a series of numbers tattooed along the slope of his right clavicle, and he has black and red nautical stars on both shoulder sockets. He looks criminally obnoxious – it's spectacularly unfair – and Ward tries not to have a heart attack.

_Now you! Send me a pic!_

**Maybe later. Gotta get the shop ready.**

_Have a good day!!!_

And then his phone lights up with a horrendously obscene number of heart emojis. Karen and Colleen arrive at the shop a few minutes later to find him still smiling down at his phone. They look at him, confused and mildly horrified, until he notices them standing there.

“All right,” he puts his phone away, forcing himself not to blush, “the plants for the sale are coming today – let's make some space in the back.”

It's going to be chaotic – he knows it is, he has resigned himself to this fact – and they clear off as much available counter space as they can. It's also going to be a very long day of trying not to get distracted by the memory of Danny's hands on his waist. Narrowing his eyes with determination, he pulls out all the extra pots he ordered specifically for the occasion – among the usual stock of terracotta, they have white clay and black clay planters.

“Are we potting everything for the sale?” Colleen asks, trying to keep the apprehension out of her voice. Karen inhales with a panicked squeak.

“We're going to pot as much as we can, but I do want to have some unpotted.” he grunts, dragging a bag of soil towards the back door. Typically, they can pot the plants in the backroom, but for a large scale operation like this, he's going to use the lot. “Candace said she'd have some pieces ready by Saturday, so we'll have her pots to sell. Plus whatever other pots we have that people might want. People can pick their own plants and pick their own pots.”

“Say pots again,” Colleen teases him, wrapping her arms around her own bag of soil. He flips her off instead.

The van from the nursery pulls into the lot a few hours later, and Ward greets the driver with a tetchy smile. The driver doesn't even blink, more than accustomed to the eccentricities of Plant People, and starts methodically unloading everything. Hands on his hips, Ward surveys the plastic pallets, full of plants, and nods to himself.

Time to get to work.

Because he is a benevolent god, he lets Colleen and Karen work in the shop while he covers himself in dirt in the back. They wander out to harass him periodically, and they pot a few plants in the process, but mostly they keep themselves busy on the shop floor. He manages to con Colleen into doing a batch by promising to save one of the containers of Lithops for her. (He even lets her pick.)

It would be easy to fall into a rhythm of speed, but Ward forces himself to take his time with the plants – loosens them from their plastic planters with deft fingers, handles their little leaves with care, tamps the dirt down until it's packed nice and tight – not just because they're deserving of respect, but because he takes pride in his work. He lets himself be intentional with the plants. (Which also serves to keep his focus on his work and not on the sound Danny made when Ward tugged on his hair.)

“All right,” he croons to a Baby Toes Succulent – so named for their clusters of bulbous, tube shaped leaves – as he gentles it into its new home. “There you go.”

“So you do talk to them,” Ward startles, thankfully not dropping the plant, as he looks up to see Danny smiling at him. He's propped in the doorway, hands tucked in his pockets, with his hair falling into his eyes. Breathing is suddenly _very_ difficult. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Ward swallows.

“I never got my picture, so I thought I'd come see the real thing.” He pushes himself off the door frame and immediately stumbles when his feet catch on the uneven pavement. “Wait, shit, no.” Ward laughs, as Danny, arms flailing, rights himself with a sheepish grin on his face.

“Smooth entrance,” he quips, when Danny leans across the fold up table serving as his workspace. He's very careful with where he braces his hands, so he doesn't jostle any of the plants or knock over any of the pots. Ward lets himself be impressed.

“Not my fault,” Danny promises, tilting his head, “you're just too cute.” Ward stares at him, skeptical, until Danny reaches out with one finger, brushing tenderly over his cheekbone. “You have just a little bit of dirt, right here. It's way too distracting.”

“I don't think anyone's called me cute since I turned thirteen,” he comments, drily.

“Get used to it. You're gonna be hearing it a lot.” Danny pauses, drawing back suddenly, and he looks somewhere off to the left, as if he's suddenly realized something important, “wait, if that's okay, Shit, I didn't even – we didn't really talk about it?” Ward watches his verbal gymnastics quietly. “Okay, I would like to date you, Ward.” He pronounces finally, rubbing the back of his neck. “If you would like to date... me.”

Ward blinks at him, urgently wishing he could tell him everything – about his father, and his sister, and how scary it is to care so much about his shop, even though he knows he doesn't deserve an ounce of success, and how, if they start something together, he knows he's going to ruin that too. But Danny is peering down at him, hope shining bright in his ocean blue eyes, so he smiles.

“I would like that too, Danny.”

He'll tell him later. For now, they're too busy kissing.

\- - -

Through the rest of the week, Ward manages to get everything done in preparation for Saturday; (despite Danny's semi-regular visits) every available surface in the backroom is occupied by potted plants, but they're all trained professionals when it comes to dancing around and through the greenery without disturbing any leaves. Karen, in particular, is fond of keeping her hands up in the air as she maneuvers around them.

Candace brings over about a dozen planters (all ranging from 3 to 6in tall), which Ward promises will be featured prominently during the sale. The pale tan clay is speckled with flecks of dark brown, and he spends far too much time admiring how the freckles show through the smooth lines of white glaze. Colleen dutifully blows up their social media, getting people hyped about the raffle and all the new plants they'll be showing off. At his prodding, she takes a few photos of Candace's pots to include in the feed.

Jessica pops in and out, as is her whim, offering emotional support in the form of sandwiches and baked goods. She devotes an entire hour to staring at Ward as he folds the latest order of t-shirts, (he finally capitulated to Colleen's request for a stealth version of their logo shirt, under the condition that it would be a limited run to commemorate the anniversary) until he eventually breaks and glares at her. 

“So. Danny Rand, huh.”

Rolling his eyes, he tosses a shirt at her face.

Surprisingly, Colleen and Karen have been very forgiving with his new found ...situation with Danny. Not including keeping Jessica informed on his private life, the gossiping brats, they've been decently respectful. They keep their teasing to a minimum, saying only that they're glad he's happy. (And if he isn't happy, let them know asap because they've got his back. This was their neighborhood first. But, for real Ward, it's okay to want to be happy. It's okay to want something good in his life.)

Friday night, Ward locks the shop door and kills the lights. He sits on the floor, his back against the register desk, and takes a deep breath. Karen settles down next to him with her legs folded primly under her, her head resting on his shoulder. Colleen sits on his other side, slouching against him, with her wrists propped on her bent knees. After a long moment, he loops his arms over both of them.

“If you say something sappy,” Colleen warns, as she swallows thickly and stares up at the ceiling with glistening eyes, “I will kick your ass.”

“I just want to say,” he begins carefully, glancing at her for warning signs of imminent violence, “that I could not have done this without you. Both of you.” Karen reaches up, grabbing a hold of the hand he has on her shoulder. He squeezes her fingers. “You two mean the world to me, and I know that Dryad & Co. would not be half as successful without your support.”

“You make it easy,” Karen tells him simply. “We wouldn't be here if we didn't believe in you.”

“Thank you,” his voice catches, and Colleen slides her hand over his elbow. “I can't even begin to tell you how grateful I am to have you both in my life. It has not been easy, and I keep waiting for things to go wrong,” he laughs wetly, “but I know that, no matter what happens, I'll be okay. And it's because of you two. Thank you for believing in me and thank you for caring so much and for working so hard. Thank you for being my family.”

“Thank you for being my family,” Karen repeats with a stuttering sigh. 

“Fuck the both of you,” Colleen whines, burying her face in his shirt. He pretends to ignore the way the fabric is suddenly damp. “You are a good dude, Ward Meachum. You too, Karen Page.”

“You are a good dude, Colleen Wing,” he and Karen reply at the same time. There's a beat of silence, and then they all bust out laughing, tears streaming down their cheeks.

The next morning, Ward wakes up to a string of texts that Danny sent at four in the morning ( _good luck today!! I'll see you at the party!! you're going to be amazing!! happy anniversary!!_ ) with a not unexpected spam of heart emojis. Sparing a moment of concern for his sleeping habits, Ward struggles to compose a response – he can't convey the thrill of sweetness he feels whenever Danny texts him. Finally, he settles on something simple and brief.

**I'll see you in a few hours. Hope you can sleep in – looks like you had a late night.**

And, just to fuck with him, because it's his shop's two year anniversary, and he's allowed to be indulgent, Ward takes a selfie. He sits up in bed, propping himself up against his metal headboard, and tries not to feel completely idiotic. The light filtering in through his window helps cast a dreamy haze over the whole scene, which helps. His hair is free of product, falling messily over his forehead, and his eyes are just the right side of sleepy. (Plus, he's shirtless – Danny might appreciate that.)

He sends the photo before he can stop himself and flees to the shower where, with any luck, he'll drown before he can do anything else embarrassing.

Karen and Colleen show up two and a half hours before they're due to open – despite the amount of work they've accomplished over the past week and a half, there's still a lot of prep to be done. They're both ready, wearing Dryad & Co. shirts (Colleen is wearing the stealth logo design, and Karen is wearing the one with PLANTS! emblazoned across the front), with iced coffees in hand. Karen passes him one, which he accepts gratefully.

“Marry me,” he comments idly, taking a heavenly sip.

“I believe Danny would object to that,” Colleen laughs, pulling her hair back into a high ponytail. “So would Frank, come to think of it.”

“Oh _really_?” He fixes Karen with a pointed stare, raising an eyebrow. “What's this? Does our Miss. Page have an admirer?”

“Nope, nope, nope.” She shakes her head, face pink, “we're not talking about this, no thank you.” She hurries off to the backroom to drop off her stuff, and Colleen and Ward watch her go with amused smiles.

“They've been texting,” Colleen tells him in a faux-whisper, leaning close with a scheming waggle of her eyebrows, as she takes a suggestive sip of her coffee.

“I can hear you!” Karen calls, her voice pitching into a near shriek.

“I don't care!” She shouts back, laughing around the straw in her mouth.

“He's okay, though, right?” Ward asks, powering up the tablet they use for ringing up purchases during their sidewalk sales and plugging into its charger. It ran out of batteries once, and he's been paranoid ever since.

“Yeah,” Colleen says, absent-mindedly, queuing up a playlist for the day. She narrows her eyes and looks at him, a little more seriously, as a hazy dreamwave mix starts playing over the speakers. “Yes, he seems like a good guy. A little rough, but he's been sweet to her so far. Karen definitely likes him.”

“As long as she's happy,” he muses aloud as Karen waltzes back onto the shop floor.

“I am,” she assures him, hands on her hips. “Don't we have a party to set up? Let's get to it!”

They drag the folding tables out of the backroom and set them up on the sidewalk. Ward starts loading up their one push cart with plants for Karen and Colleen to wheel out and unload – they fall into a steady rhythm of productivity, and time passes quickly. Once the tables out front are full (with ample space saved for treats from Marci and Malcolm), Karen begins decorating the chalkboard A-frame sign, detailing the specifics of the sale. (Rather than increasing the discount, they've decided to extend it to everything in the store, not just what's on the sidewalk.) Ward and Colleen begin filling in the gaps on the interior shelves. It's a tight fit, but they manage it well.

“Why didn't we do this last night?” Colleen complains, shifting a few Golden Barrel Cacti closer together to make room for some Fairy Castle Cacti. She artfully avoids their thorns as she nudges their pots around with her fingers.

“Because, I was too busy being a sappy bastard,” Ward points out, sliding a few Echeveria Atlantis onto the shelf.

Whatever snarky retort she has for him – and it was definitely going to be snarky, based upon the feisty gleam in her eye – is interrupted by Karen yelling that Marci and Malcolm have arrived. Colleen and Ward stare at each other for a beat and then start a shoving match to see who can reach the door first.

“Good morning, sweetheart!” Marci greets him as he comes tumbling out of the store; Colleen follows just a moment after, screeching to a stop before she slams into him.

“Hi Marci – hey Malcolm.” Ward is proud that he doesn't sound out of breath as he begins unloading the bright pink boxes from their van.

“Good morning all,” Malcolm smiles, “congratulations on two years!”

“Thank you,” Karen beams, ever the gracious hostess, as Ward tries to hide his face behind the boxes of confectionery delights. “Will you have time to stop by?”

“Oh, I hope so,” Malcolm says, glancing at Marci for confirmation, as he sets the last box on the folding table. “We have a few more orders to drop off, but I'd like to come.”

“Yes, we'll do our best,” Marci smooths over her clothes, which are coated with only the faintest dusting of sugar and flour, “thank you for the plant you brought by last week, Ward. It was very sweet of you.” She brushes a piece of hair out his eyes, her berry-pink lips pulled into a smile. Ward blinks at her, and she laughs. “Okay, time to get going – have fun today, kids.”

“Pretty sure we're the same age,” he tells her, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“Pretty sure that's none of your business,” she blows him a kiss as she and Malcolm climb back into their van.

“What'd you give her?” Colleen asks from his elbow.

“Flapjack Kalanchoe,” he says as they watch the van pull away from the curb. “The leaves reminded me of spatulas.”

“You're an idiot,” she informs him with a smile. “Also, next Ward Quote of the Week. Thanks, boss.”

Ward rolls his eyes, not about to dignify her with a response, as Karen asks in a worried voice, “is it bad to leave these outside? Should we keep them cold?” She points to the stack of boxes, frowning in confusion.

“There's room in the fridge,” he hefts a box into his arm. “We'll keep them there for now. And maybe only bring out a box or two at a time.”

“Dibs on cupcake patrol,” Colleen trails after him, her arms also full. Karen darts around them to hold the door to the fridge open. Once the treats are safely stored, they hurry through the rest of preparations. Karen and Colleen cut more slips of paper for the raffle, and Ward does a final (and then a final-final, and then a final-final-final) walk through of the shop.

“Okay,” Colleen puts down her scissors, “that's enough. Come here, we have a thing for you.”

“You wanna do this now?” Karen asks her, a sly smile on her face. Colleen nods, and she darts to the backroom.

“Am I going to hate this?” He scowls, crossing his arms over himself.

“You absolutely are,” Colleen grins, all teeth.

“But we don't care,” Karen finishes, reappearing with a small bundle in her arms. “We were going to give this to you last night. (“Only you were too busy being maudlin,” Colleen interrupts helpfully.) So, we're going to give it to you now.” He eyes the package with distrust, until Colleen takes it from Karen and forces it into his hands.

“Take it, you fucking weirdo,” she orders, and he looks down at the gift. It's wrapped in bright green tissue paper, decorated with gold glitter polka dots and an elaborate gold bow. He plucks at the ribbon mournfully, biting hard on his lip.

“I didn't get you two anything,” he admits, mostly to himself, “I should have gotten you two something.”

“You've given us this place,” Colleen spreads her arms wide, indicating the plants crowding the shelves, the t-shirts nestled in their cubbies, the art and other knickknacks colonizing the register counter – the whole of Dryad & Co. – with a sentimental look on her face.

“You've given us a family,” Karen adds.

“So open the damn thing!” Colleen wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, and Ward nods in resignation.

“Okay, okay,” he mumbles, gently unwrapping the gift – it's clearly a box of some sort, and he takes his time with unsticking the tape from the tissue paper. Colleen and Karen stand next to each other, arms linked, watching him closely for a reaction. “Oh no,” he warbles when he gets the box open, “well, that's just not fair.”

The three of them smile up at him in a framed photograph – it must be an outtake from Dryad Triad photo session Karen had, because they're all wearing their matching shirts. They're standing in front of the shop, laughing with their arms slung over each other. He's grinning into Colleen's hair, and Karen has her hand on his chest. None of them are actually looking at the camera, but they all look so happy. Because they're looking at each other.

He taps his fist against his mouth, and Colleen has to glance away from him.

“There's more,” Karen reminds him gently.

He sets the picture aside to see that what he originally took to be cushioning for the frame is actually a black t-shirt (of course, it's a t-shirt.) printed with the standard white, block Helvetica that has become emblematic of the Dryad & Co. aesthetic. He holds it in front of himself and barks out a decidedly teary laugh.

“Do you like it?” Colleen asks in a surprisingly small voice. He places the box and tissue wrappings down on the floor – noticing that there's a piece of paper that had been tucked under the other gifts – and pulls his shirt (the original Dryad & Co. edition) over his head. Handing it to Karen, he tugs the new shirt on and smooths one hand over his stomach. He spreads his arms wide, and they applaud appreciatively. With a shy smile, he looks down at the words written across his chest.

PLANT DAD VIBES

“I love it,” he promises. Colleen nods to herself, clearly relieved. “I really do. Thank you.”

“There's one more,” Karen reminds him again, rubbing nervously at her elbow. Eyebrows raised, he retrieves the piece of paper, unfolds it – it's the print out of an email – and begins to silently read.

_Dear Karen Page,_

_We are pleased to announce your acceptance into the Business Program, effective immediately. Congratulations! We know you have worked hard to get here. Take pride in your accomplishment and be assured that you are joining an elite group of passionate individuals..._

Wordless, he opens his arms again and they rush him. Karen is trembling, and Colleen tucks herself under his chin. He can feel them clasping hands behind his back as he clings tightly to their shoulders. “Thank you both,” he whispers into their hair, pressing kisses to their heads, “I'm so proud of you two.”

“We're proud of you too,” Colleen mumbles into his shirt and he feels Karen nodding.

\- - -

Ten minutes before the shop is supposed to open, they carry two boxes of cupcakes out to the tables on the sidewalk; Karen drags out a trashcan as well, to make clean up as easy as possible. (God help him if he finds cupcake wrappers scattered around the store.) Colleen darts off to grab the pot and papers for the raffle, as he and Karen stare down at the boxes of treats.

“Think we can get away with leaving them like this?” She asks, clearly concerned about upsetting the artfully decorated desserts.

“We might as well empty one box,” he suggests, already arranging them on the table. Marci and Malcolm have outdone themselves – he had ordered seventy-five strawberry cupcakes with marshmallow frosting and seventy-five hazelnut cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, and he gazes at them with wonder. The frosting for all of the cupcakes is the same shade of pale green, piped to look like cacti and succulents. He and Karen organize them neatly, and he throws out the empty box as she runs back into the store to grab napkins.

“I'm taking a picture,” Colleen explains, bodily moving him out of the way so she can crouch in front of the table. She plays with angles and stages a couple cupcakes with some of the plants.

“What if no one comes?” He can't help himself from musing out loud, staring morosely at the truly gorgeous spread of treats and plants in front of him. “What if this is a waste? It's a waste, isn't it?”

“You're being an idiot,” Colleen mutters as she uploads her pictures to their social media accounts. “Don't be an idiot,” she recommends, awarding him with a winning smile. He buries his face in his hands and makes dying animal noises.

“What's the matter?” Karen asks, far too unconcerned given the amount of distress he's experiencing.

“He's being an idiot,” Colleen informs her drolly.

“Don't be an idiot,” Karen suggests cheerily, patting him on the head a little harder than is strictly necessary. “We have customers!”

They do have customers.

They have _so many_ customers.

Their usual batch of regulars comes, but they have a lot of first timers too – and they're all so nice. They keep congratulating Ward as they take cupcakes and look at the plants. Karen has way too much fun showing off the pottery Candace made of them as she explains that people can pick their own plants to take home and, if they're okay with waiting for a minute, either she or Ward will be happy to pot them. Colleen stands up on a folding chair multiple times to get pictures of the crowds. (She only almost falls once, but he has a minor cardiac event every time he sees her hopping up there.)

A few teenagers compliment his new shirt, and he's almost positive they're not making fun of him. A woman tells him how excited she is about her new Lithops – she's always wanted one, but they're so difficult to find; he makes sure to say it was Colleen's idea to order some for the sale. A couple asks him if they've ever worked a wedding before – he laughs, assuring them that he has, and if they want to email him they can work out all the details. Also, the bakers who made their cupcakes make amazing wedding cakes too. A young father asks which plants would be best to grow with his kids – he wants to help them understand how to care for the earth and be responsible stewards for Mother Nature (his words). Ward points him to their display of echeveria.

“Nice shirt,” an abrasively familiar voice drawls in his ear.

“Hi Jessica,” he turns around, offering her a hazelnut cupcake. “Thanks for coming by.”

“Yeah, well, work was slow,” she grouses, accepting the treat with a scowl.

“Wasn't aware you had a job,” he jokes, and she curls her lip, stuffing the entire cupcake in her mouth. “Sexy.”

“My goal in life.” She chews, her cheeks comically large, and looks over the throngs of people moving in and out of the shop. “Jesus, people really do like this place, don't they?” He shrugs, hands in his pockets, wondering when he'll get used to the feeling of genuinely earned success. Everything he accomplished at his father's company was cheapened by the fact that he was doing it, well, for his father. This, though, is all his. She nudges her elbow against his, and he glances down at her. “Good job, Ward.” She holds eye contact for a long moment, until he smiles.

“Thanks for everything, Jess.” He loops an arm around her shoulders, giving her ample time to duck out from under him, and pulls her in close. “It means a lot to me.” He doesn't have to tell her what, exactly, means a lot to him – she knows. Telling him the truth about his father. Sticking around the store. Becoming his friend. Becoming Karen and Colleen's friend.

“It's okay to be happy for yourself – you can be proud of what you've done here.” She reassures him and then shrugs off his arm. “Okay, get off. I'm getting another cupcake.”

“Try the strawberry.” He watches her snag one off the table, noting that the spread of treats is looking a little sparse. (Again – he knows Karen has retrieved at least one box from the fridge already.) “Take a look around – we have some new stuff that you haven't seen yet.” She wanders off, peering at a pot of Haworthia Obtusa – the leaves cluster together, like translucent, water filled pearls or bizarre, little alien eggs – with wide eyes. Knowing that he probably won't get another free moment, Ward shifts through the crowd and heads to the backroom to grab another box of cupcakes.

He's about to open the fridge when a pair of arms wraps warmly around his hips. He looks down, smiling at the bouquets of roses decorating the hands settling over his belt buckle.

“Careful,” he whispers, “I'm a taken man.”

“Hmm, luckily I'm not afraid of a little competition,” Danny hums against his skin, nosing sweetly at his neck. “You smell good.”

“I absolutely do not,” Ward complains, “I've been running around since 8 this morning – I smell like sweat.” He does – sidewalk sales are hard work on their own, never mind when they've been converted into chaotic anniversary celebrations. Danny, on the other hand, smells amazing – woodsy and spicy, tingling in the back of Ward's throat like cinnamon and cedar smoke.

Danny huffs out a laugh, squeezing Ward a little tighter before stepping back to give him the space to turn around. “Thanks for the picture,” he braces one hand on the fridge, just above Ward's head, caging him in with a stereotypical bad boy stance. (It's only a little funny, given Ward's three inch height advantage.) “That was really nice to wake up to.”

“Thought you might appreciate that – felt like an idiot while I was doing it,” he quips, resting his hands passively on Danny's chest.

“Nah, you looked good,” Danny tilts his head and brushes a kiss across the crest of Ward's cheekbone with a smile. “Thank you.” Ward shrugs, feeling prickly and exposed under Danny's fond gaze, so he's grateful when he comments, “a lot of people showed up today, huh?”

“It was the cupcakes,” Ward assures him, only half serious.

“Only reason I'm here,” Danny agrees, though he contradicts himself by leaning forward, covering the mere inches between them, to press their mouths together. Ward trails his hands downs his chest to grab at his waist, bunching Danny's plaid flannel in his fingers. Their tongues slide together, a soft wet heat, that has Ward groaning in the back of his throat. Danny smiles – for a moment, Ward finds himself kissing teeth – before cupping Ward's face in his hands and pushing him solidly against the fridge.

The appliance rocks ominously, and they both freeze.

“Shit,” Ward exhales, as Danny drops his head to his shoulder, shaking with silent laughter. “Okay, hold on.” Danny backs up, still snickering, and Ward has a moment to admire his handiwork – he's rumbled, shirt hiked up a little, with a dusting of pink across the bridge of his nose. Judging by the molten gleam in Danny's eyes, he doesn't look much better.

“I have to get back out there,” he confesses, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to tame it. Danny tries to help, but Ward bats his hands out of the way. He tugs his own clothes back into respectability – Danny does the same, though with considerably less care (the mussed, just woke up look suits him). He holds the fridge door open for Ward so he can retrieve the coveted box of cupcakes. “What time did you actually get to sleep?” He asks, suddenly remembering the 4am time stamp of his text messages.

“Uh. Maybe, like, 5?” He squints, looking up at the ceiling for guidance. 

“You're a menace,” Ward informs him, deftly weaving through the crowd with the pink, cardboard box balanced in his arms. He makes it outside just as someone picks up the last cupcake, and he moves quickly, opening the box and arranging its sugary contents on the table. Danny helps, but not before snagging a hazelnut succulent.

“Oh good, you're here,” Colleen says in Ward's ear, dropping one hand on his shoulder. “Don't go anywhere.”

“Why?” He asks, but she doesn't answer, just scoots around him and hops up on a folding chair with only minimal wobbling. “I need to get rid of those.”

“Hello everyone!” She calls out, waving her arms. Karen stands next to her, the pot for the raffle cradled in her arms. “Thank you all so much for coming out to celebrate Dryad & Co.'s two year anniversary!” She bows with a big grin as people in the crowd cheer. (Danny and Jessica are the loudest.) Ward does his best to disappear, drawing his shoulders up to his ears.

“If you haven't grabbed a cupcake yet, please do,” she continues, “they were made by our friends at M&M Bakery – definitely check them out, because they make amazing treats. It makes our anniversary extra special, knowing that we have friends like them helping us celebrate. Now, before we draw our raffle winner, I just wanted to say a few words.” Colleen pauses for dramatic effect, her eyes locking on Ward. He immediately breaks out into a cold sweat. 

“Oh, I'm going to kill her.” Ward growls under his breath.

“Oh, he's going to kill me,” she laughs to herself, still smiling. “I met Ward almost two years ago, and I only knew him for one day,” she holds up her index finger for emphasis, “before he offered me a job. I said yes – God knows why – and I'm so glad I did. Ward works so hard to make Dryad & Co. the best plant shop that he can. He cares so much about the plants and about this community – and he makes it very easy for us to care too.” She has to pause as her voice catches, and Ward lets out a steadying breath as he feels his own chest get tight. 

“I can't imagine what my life would be like if I hadn't met him or Karen,” she reaches out, and Karen links their fingers together with a soft smile. “He gave me a job, but he also gave me a home. Thank you for being my family.” She says the last part to him directly with a watery grin, and he bobs his head in acknowledgment. Danny settles his hand low on his back, rubbing idly with his thumb, until the warmth of him bleeds through Ward's shirt to soak into his skin.

“Okay,” she wipes her eyes with the back of her hand with a self-conscious sniff, “enough of that. Let's pick our winner!” She and Karen cheer, and the crowd starts clapping. “Miss Page, will you do the honors?” Karen shakes up the pot, mixing the strips of paper with her hand (they have maybe 100 entries, which is more than he was expecting) to add to the drama. “The anticipation is killing me!” Karen pulls out the winning ticket with a flourish and hands it to Colleen. They're both shining with happiness, loud and open in the early afternoon sunlight, and Ward feels something hook into his ribcage as he watches them. Colleen reads off the winning name, but Ward can't hear her over the rush of affection burning behind his eyes.

\- - -

After the party, they are exhausted. Colleen's ponytail is drooping, and Karen has a light sunburn on her face. Ward lies down on the cool concrete floor of the shop, like a haggard, sweaty starfish, while Karen and Colleen pack up the rest of the cupcakes (they only have half a box left) to store in the fridge. He has his eyes closed, so he doesn't notice Danny standing over him until he feels a sneaker nudging at his leg.

“What?” He asks, not bothering to open his eyes.

“Come on,” Danny grabs his wrists and tugs. “Let's get the tables in the back.” Groaning, he allows his limp body to be pulled into an upright position, and Danny wraps an arm around his waist when he's finally standing. “Good job today,” he whispers, pushing a kiss into his slightly grimy hair. Ward just smiles without saying anything.

Between the four of them, they get the shop back in reasonable order with relative ease. All of Candace's pots sold – as did the stealth logo shirts – and Ward makes a note to email her to coordinate the next shipment. They're also low on pins, so he makes another note to reach out to Katie to order more. Danny ducks out to give them some privacy (he says he's going to take a shower at his place, but Ward can see right through him), with a promise to be back in about an hour.

Karen kills the lights on the shop floor after he leaves, and the three of them stand in the dusky shadows of the store. They all move at the same time, converging together in a sticky, tired hug. None of them smell particularly pleasant (himself included), but Ward's content to hold them both close to his chest as they all lean against each other.

“Today was a good day,” he mumbles, and he feels Colleen squeeze him extra tight. Karen nods against his collarbone, her eyes barely open. “Take tomorrow off – the both you, you've earned it.”

“Are you sure?” Colleen asks, though it's hardly a question, and Karen makes a similarly inquisitive noise.

“Yes – I insist. You both worked hard, and you deserve a break. Now get going – are you two going to be okay getting home?”

“Yeah boss,” Colleen's voice is muffled against his shirt. She sighs – he can feel her ribs expanding – and pulls away. “We'll be all right. Thank you.” He waves off their gratitude, as she and Karen shuffle towards the door, and he watches them go with his hands in his pockets.

“Don't think I've forgotten, Karen. We're going to celebrate,” he calls after her, pointing dramatically. “I'm so proud of you.” She offers him a slightly sleepy wave in response, but her eyes are sparking with mirth. She and Colleen link arms as they walk to Colleen's car. He locks the door once they leave and gives himself a minute to stand alone in his shop. There are still plants on the shelves, and he looks over them, remembering how he cradled their leaves in his hands as he potted them, carefully tamping the soil down around their roots and stalks. He never wants to forget how it feels to be responsible for something so fragile and fleeting.

“Today was a _good_ day,” Ward repeats, like he's trying to convince himself, and heads up to his apartment. As he walks up the stairs, he sends a text to Karen. Much as he wants to remind her of his offer for financial assistance, he holds off until they can talk about it in person.

**I am so proud of you. Congratulations! Let me know if there is anything I can do to support you. And I mean anything. Good job, Karen. You deserve this!**

Feeling appropriately sappy, he plugs his phone in to charge on his bedside table and goes to take a shower.

Standing under the spray of hot water helps him feel a little more human and a little less wrung out. He gives himself permission to breathe – bracing his hands on the shower tiles and just letting the water run over his shoulders and down his back as he inhales and exhales. The party had been a blur of not unwelcome activity – it's gratifying, if not slightly terrifying, to know that the community cares as much about Dryad & Co. as he does. He isn't alone, anymore. Hasn't been for a long time, it seems, if Karen and Colleen and Jessica's relentless, albeit unearned, affection for him is anything to go by.

Not to mention Danny.

Who should be coming over soon.

Ward bites down on his lower lip, fully aware of the flush creeping down his chest, as he thinks of the heat of Danny's touches. He's very tactile (far more so than anyone else Ward has dated) and he likes to just... rest his hand on Ward's back, or arm, or shoulder, or leg. It's not even possessive or sexual most of the time; he needs an anchor – something to keep him grounded, and right now, his anchor is Ward. It's a nice feeling, knowing that someone is always going to be reaching for him.

He hurries through the rest of his shower, soaping himself up until he finally feels like he's been cleansed of all the grit left caked on his body by the day's work. When he gets out of the bathroom, he sees a text from Danny, timestamped for five minutes ago.

_Heading over. See you in like a minute!_

Cursing to himself, he hastens to get dressed – pulling on fresh clothes, because he can't bear to put his grungy shirt and jeans back on. He doesn't manage to get his shirt fully buttoned by the time he's careening down the stairs, but at least he's wearing pants.

Danny is waiting for him when he flings himself onto the shop floor; he perks up on the other side of the door as Wards rushes up to let him in. His excited smile shifts, mouth dropping open and eyes widening, as he gapes at him through the glass.

“Sorry, I was in the shower –” Ward tries to apologize once he gets the door open. 

“Shh,” Danny shushes him, holding up a hand and looking away, as Ward locks the door behind him, “I can't – you gotta. Just, shh. Don't talk for a minute. Give me a second to adjust.” Frowning in confusion, Ward uses the apparent time-out to start properly buttoning up his shirt. “Nope, nope, don't do that either.” He bats at his hands, finally capturing his wrists and tugging him close. Ward's shirt remains partially open.

“What is wrong with you?” Ward asks, letting Danny pull him into his chest.

“You just look very attractive right now,” Danny admits, face red, as he stares somewhere off to the left of Ward's head. “And I am struggling.”

Ward cocks an eyebrow, looking down at himself, unconvinced. His shirt is spotted with water, because he didn't have enough time to properly dry off, and his hair is still dripping. Speaking of his hair, his bangs are flopping uselessly over his forehead, practically in his eyes. He looks back at Danny, who is resolutely not meeting his incredulous stare, and widens his eyes to convey the full measure of his disbelief.

“This?” He twitches his hands, as if to indicate the whole, messy spread of himself, “this gets you going?”

“Okay, all right.” Danny says, mostly to his feet, “yep, not working – sorry.” He get his hands on Ward's waist and, bending his knees, hoists him easily over his shoulder.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” Ward scrabbles against his back as Danny wraps an arm securely around his hips to hold him in place. “Is this really necessary?” He complains, grateful that Danny can't see his vibrantly red face – he also hopes that he can't tell how his heart rate has suddenly kicked up.

“Absolutely necessary,” Danny retorts as his other arm wraps around the backs of his thighs. “It's for your own safety.” Despite the indignity of being slung around like a bag of flour (or potting soil), Ward feels a thrill of heat growling in his belly – Danny picked him up like it was nothing, like he could carry him around all day. He knows he's gangly, all sharp angles and unwieldy lines, (he has it on good authority that he's at least 80% leg) but Danny holds him like there's nothing else he would rather do. Plus, this affords him a spectacular view of Danny's equally spectacular ass.

“Do I weigh anything to you?” He asks, propping his elbow on Danny's back, as they walk up the stairs.

“Not really,” Danny answers, muscles shifting deliciously as he adjusts his grip.

They make it to his room, and Danny gently sets him on the floor. Ward doesn't even bother trying to straighten his clothes, just stares at him as he rubs at the back of his neck with a sheepish half-smile on his face.

“Was that too much?” He asks, squinting with just a little bit of shame.

“I'm going to kiss you now,” Ward informs him, striding forward and taking his face in his hands. It's easy to slot their mouths together; Danny's lips are already parted and ready for him as he licks into his mouth. He groans – a low, pleased noise in the back of his throat – and Ward make it his mission to get Danny to do it again. Kissing him takes no effort – there's no fighting, no ulterior motives – just the slick slide of their tongues.

Danny gets one hand under his shirt, nudging over the notches of his spine with his fingers, and Ward starts working on his buttons.

“Wait,” for the second time that evening, Danny stops him, holding his hands in a loose grip. “Let me do it, please?” He glances up at Ward, blue eyes gleaming like sapphires against the gold of his eyelashes, and Ward nods, mouth suddenly dry. Danny presses one more kiss to his lips and begins fiddling with his buttons. It doesn't take long – he only managed to fasten maybe three of them – and Ward lets his shirt fall to the floor.

He feels bound with his skin, trapped, like he's too big to fit inside of himself, as Danny rakes his eyes over him. It's not exactly cold in his room, but he feels goosebumps break out over his arms and his nipples tighten into hard peaks as Danny trails his index finger down his chest, barely skimming over his skin with his nail. Ward can hardly breathe when he tilts his hand, pressing against Ward's belly button with the flat of his thumb and cupping his palm around his waist.

“Yep,” he mumbles, rubbing over the sensitive jut of Ward's hipbone. “All right.” He uses the grip on Ward's torso to yank him close, until their feet are bumping into each other, and Ward realizes Danny's still wearing his shoes. And his plaid flannel. And his everything.

“You next,” he whispers, tugging on the tails of Danny's shirt, before he can get distracted by more kisses. “Is that okay?” He doesn't mean to sound so pleading, but Danny must like his voice, because he's trying to jerk his shirt off over his head without undoing the buttons. “All right, well, let's not do that,” Ward yanks the shirt back in place and methodically begins unbuttoning it.

Danny doesn't make it easy – he's wriggling around as he uses the pause to kick off his sneakers (he isn't wearing socks, which Ward doesn't know what to do with that truly upsetting piece of trivia). Now barefoot, he's reaching for his belt, when he stops suddenly.

“Is this okay?” He asks, his hands frozen over his buckle. “I just assumed – what do you want to do tonight? Cause, like, I'm good with basically anything.”

Ward smiles, slips his fingers over the worn fabric of Danny's red and black shirt, “I'd like to fuck you. Or you can fuck me. Either of those sound good to you?”

“The first,” Danny says and resumes fumbling with his belt, “I am absolutely open to the first option, please. Oh,” he pauses, pupils blown wide as a dreamy blush blooms across his cheeks. “Can I ride you? Is that okay?” Ward looks him over – barefoot in ratty jeans, belt gaping open, shirt unbuttoned to reveal even more tattoos on his chest – and kisses him softly, all but sucking Danny's tongue into his mouth.

“Anything you want, baby.”

They're both hard when they fall into his bed. Danny has a lot of fun pushing him onto his back once they're fully naked; he peers down at Ward, his eyes blazing midnight blue, as he drinks in his fill. Ward has never felt particularly self conscious about his body – he knows, from a purely aesthetic perspective, that he is not unattractive. He knows how to sprawl out on his navy sheets, all lean lines and toned muscles. He knows how to make his eyes go molten and dark – how to promise unspeakably dirty things with just his stare. He understands the inherent manipulations associated with enticing someone into his bed. But, like this, spread out and vulnerable under Danny's unblinking gaze, he feels shy.

Biting his lip, he reaches for him with both hands and Danny obliges, crawling over him on all fours until they're eye-to-eye. He settles on his side, slipping one knee between Ward's legs and draping one arm over his hips. With an easy smile on his face, Danny leans over him to brush a kiss across his mouth. 

“Are you okay?” He whispers against his lips; Ward can feel the vibrations of his words better than he can hear his actual voice. He reaches over, tangling his fingers in his honey-amber curls, and pulls him closer. There's a heat building under his skin, and it's amplified by the touch of Danny's hands on his face, thumbs under his chin to guide the rhythm of their kisses. He whines, embarrassingly loud, in the back of his throat as Danny shifts, sliding over him and rolling his hips against his thigh, his dick trapped in the slick friction of skin-on-skin. 

Danny nuzzles at his jaw with his nose, trailing a hot line of kisses down his neck; he scrapes his canines over the steady thrum of Ward's pulse, and Ward shudders beneath him. Ward wraps his unoccupied arm around Danny's shoulders, digging his fingers into his flesh as Danny maps out the cartography of his collar bones with his teeth and tongue. 

No doubt, he intends to leave bruises.

Which, if that's the case, then it's only fair for Ward to leave some marks of his own. He scores his nails across the long pane of Danny's back, breath catching on a keen, when Danny curls a hand around his thigh, hitching his leg high over his hip. Ward throws his head back, breathing hard, as electricity sings through his nerves and sizzles in his blood.

“Wait, Danny,” he reaches up, planting his hands over the black and red stars on his shoulders and shoving lightly. “Hold on.” Danny lets Ward push him back, bracing himself on his elbows on either side of his head. They stare at each other, panting, until Danny's face breaks out into a sunny smile.

“You okay?” He asks, flushed all the way down his chest, as he nudges their noses together. Ward huffs out a laugh, scratching his fingers over Danny's scalp, and nods.

“Just need a minute,” he sighs, getting his breath under control. Still grinning, Danny drops a kiss to his mouth and sits up, settling back with his legs tucked beneath him.

“Was that too much for you?” Danny teases, and Ward rolls his eyes, resting his hands on his thighs. He's pleased to watch Danny shudder with a full body shiver, as he rubs his thumbs over his sensitive skin. Tilting his head, Ward studies him, taking in the gallery of tattoos on his chest and torso. He's already seen the stars on his shoulders and the numbers on his right clavicle already (he's only a little ashamed to say he scrolls back to the selfie Danny sent him with some some regularity). There's also a spindly, winding dragon twisting across his chest; the slender head and body snake down his sternum, and its wings spread practically to his nipples.

Ward reaches out with one finger, tracing the looping whirl of the dragon's trail, and he watches Danny's muscles jump under his touch. Emboldened, he continues his exploration of the canvas of Danny's body, for there is much to explore. He has a bridge, heavy and industrial, extending across his left flank in bold, confident strokes of black; the support towers stretch along his ribcage, starting just above the jut of his hip and ending under the curve of his pectoral. It's placed perfectly, so as not to compete with the dragon. Ward tracks the swooping cables as they fade expertly into stippled shading, tracing over the lines with his fingernail.

There's more, so much more, but Danny's hands are clenching and unclenching in desperate fists, and he has his lower lip caught under his teeth.

“You okay up there?” Ward asks mildly, laying his palm flat against Danny's abs and sliding his hand up his chest. He rubs his thumb over his right nipple with a smirk, and Danny squirms against his thigh. A gratifying thrill drips down his spine as Ward looks over him, naked and flushed, perched in his lap, hair all golden and sweet. He feels something soft and breakable unfurl between his lungs, and Ward reaches up to cup his face. “All right, come back here,” he pulls him down, and Danny follows without complaint, bracing himself on his forearms on either side of Ward's head as their mouths meet.

Kissing has never been this easy. Danny moves over him, hips shifting and rolling, as he catches Ward's lower lip between his teeth. He soothes the sting the tip of his tongue, and Ward makes a punched out noise as he moves to stake his claim on the other side of his neck. Mouth dropping open with a gasp, Ward tangles his fingers in Danny's hair as Danny sucks enthusiastic bruises into his skin.

After a moment, Danny draws back, his eyes burning with pride as he surveys the tapestry of red, tender marks he's left on him. He dips his head, pressing one more kiss to the corner of his mouth, and sits up. Ward settles his hands low on his waist, rubbing over his sweat slicked skin with his thumbs in slow, easy circles. A besotted smile on his face, Danny brushes the bangs out of Ward's eyes and trails his fingers over his cheekbones in feather light touches.

“You want to keep going?” Ward asks him, surprised by how hesitant he sounds in the deepening shadows of his room. Danny nods, and Ward tightens his grip on his hips.

They get lube and a condom out of his bedside table (well, Danny does – Ward is content to lie under him and watch his muscles flex as he leans over to rummage around), and Danny tries to press the tube into his palm. Ward stares at him, and he shrugs, smiling effortlessly.

“I have a thing for your hands. Indulge me.” Ward looks down at his hands, rotating his wrists and wiggling his fingers. He holds them up for Danny's approval and gets an amused, if slightly flustered, eye roll for his antics. “Please?”

“Ask me again,” he says, titling his chin up in a challenge. Danny shifts, opening his knees until he's straddling Ward's waist and bracing his rose covered hands on his chest; his eyes go liquid as he glances at Ward through his lashes.

“Please?” He lets his voice catch, just shy of begging properly, as he rolls his hips.

“Well, if you insist,” Ward rasps, messily slicking up his fingers and dripping spots on his sheets in the process. He wants to take his time with Danny – wants to get swept up in the keening sighs and stuttering breaths as he works him open, getting his fingers as deep as he can. Danny is more than willing, riding Ward's hand like he was made for it. His breath hitches in his chest as Ward quirks his fingers, pressing hard inside him. “You all right?” He asks as Danny takes in heaving gulps of air.

“Yeah, yep,” he flexes his fingers and lets his head hang low between his shoulders. “I'm good, keep going.”

Ward grips his hip with his unoccupied hand, and Danny grabs his wrist, anchoring himself, as he adds a third finger. He's gasping, little punched out noises, as Ward curls his fingers, just the right side of cruel. His pupils are blown, and he arches his back, shaking his head desperately as Ward gets him wet and loose.

“Okay, okay, hold on.” He licks his lips, mouth dry, and Ward stills, steadying him with the hand on his hip. “I'm ready,” Danny nods, curls tumbling into his eyes.

“You're ready?” Ward confirms, and Danny bobs his head again, so he pulls out his fingers, wiping them on his already messy sheets. “I don't want to hurt you.”

“You won't. I'm good, I promise,” he holds out his palm for the condom. “Can I?” Ward passes him the foil packet, which Danny opens deftly, despite the shaking of his hands. He twists around to look at Ward's dick and freezes, blinking.

“Uh,” Ward squints, suddenly concerned. He's never had someone stare at his dick quite like that – it's only mildly troubling. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, a little dreamy, and then he catches himself. “Yes, it's just...” The tips of his ears go pink, as does the rest of his face, “You're really big.” Ward rolls his eyes, and Danny laughs, embarrassed, as he works the condom on.

“Flatterer,” Ward hisses, clenching his hands in his sheets, as Danny reaches for the lube among the rumbled bedding and slicks him up. He gets his payback, taking his time as he slides his hand up and down the full length of him a few times, until Ward is bucking and cursing beneath him. Satisfied, Danny keeps a firm grip on Ward's cock as he lowers himself down, other hand gripping the metal headboard for balance. He goes slow, at Ward's urging, and he tips his head back, eyes clenched shut, when he finally bottoms out. “You okay?” Ward asks, his voice rough.

Danny is all heat and friction, so wet and tight around him, and his chest heaves as he takes in great lungfuls of breath. He steadies himself, fingers splayed on Ward's chest, and Ward wraps his hand around his wrist, knuckles white, as Danny nods, mouth open and pink. His cock is jutting away from his body, red and leaking.

“You just feel,” his voice sparks as he shifts his hips, “really fucking good.”

“You too,” Ward rumbles, petting over the bridge tattoo on his flank in broad, sweeping strokes. His skin is flushed and feverish under his touch, and Ward feels a rush of pride at his flustered panting. “You feel so good – holy shit, can I? Are you –?”

“Yeah,” Danny nods, thighs flexing as he rocks against him, “I'm ready. You can move.”

Ward moves slow – plants his feet and bends his knees to cage Danny in the cradle of his hips – and he keeps his thrusts shallow. Danny meets his rhythm easily, hips rolling and grinding against him in a way that has Ward biting his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood.

“Fuck, Danny,” he curses, digging his fingers into the delicate skin of his wrist, as Danny clenches around him, “you're so tight. Does this feel good?” Ward angles deeper, trying to make him cry or scream – he feels drunk on his noises, and he's rewarded for his efforts with a sharp keen. “What do you need?”

“Harder,” tears gather at the corners of his eyes, and he pleads in a faltering voice, “please – Ward, can you?”

“Of course,” Ward settles his hands on Danny's waist, rubbing his thumb over the Chinese characters on his right hipbone, “sure baby – just wanna make you feel good.” He thrusts up, hard and fast, hips snapping until Danny is bouncing and his breath is hitching.

It's unfair, how beautiful he is – dandelion curls and morning glory eyes – and Ward forgets how to breathe as Danny tips his head back, showing off the long line of his throat. He's begging, sweet kitten gasps in the back of his throat, and Ward wants to give him everything – wants to carve open his chest and make a home for Danny in the pulp of his heart.

His thighs must be burning, but he meets Ward's pace, sweat trailing down the slope of his abs. Ward feels equally overheated, burning and dizzy, as his entire world narrows to Danny – messy, delicious, and good – and the untenable desire to be worthy of him. He didn't know he could feel this happy and open and connected to another human being like this, and he's willing to do anything keep him.

“Ward, I'm close – I'm so close. Can I?”

“Yeah,” Ward swallows around a groan, “touch yourself, Danny – show me how you like it.”

He wraps his hand around his cock, stroking over himself until all Ward can hear is the sound of skin sliding on skin; he's mesmerized by the sight of Danny's roses moving against the throbbing, red heat of his dick. With a whine, Danny doubles over, his breath gusting over Ward's sweat slicked chest as he pants. Running his tongue over his bottom lip, Ward slides one hand through Danny's curls.

“You're okay,” he reassures him, scratching over his scalp with his nails, “you're going to be okay – you can let go, now. C'mon baby, let go.” Danny sobs, his voice catching like a record scratch, and he comes all over the two of them. Whimpering, he writhes against Ward, hips jerking and grinding, as he chases the crest of his orgasm. “You all right?”

“Mmhmm,” Danny hums, pliant; he lists to one side, robbed of all coordination. Ward settles him on his back, and he brings up his knees to bracket his hips. “I'm okay,” he whispers, linking his fingers behind Ward's neck and pulling him down for a kiss. Ward licks into his mouth, molasses slow and sugar sweet, and Danny smiles. “You can move – I'm really okay.”

Ward rocks into him, and Danny makes a punched-out sound, nodding bonelessly. He keeps his rhythm steady with rolling, languid thrusts that have stars sparking behind his eyes. Danny is so good to him – holds him close and tightens around him so that Ward is panting out curses against his hair.

“Does it feel good?” Danny asks, tilting his hips up to meet his pace, “tell me it feels good.”

“It feels good – you feel good, Danny. You take such good care of me,” he clenches his eyes shut against the pressure building under his skin. He feels too big for his body, like he's about to shatter into pieces, like the only thing holding him together is the sound of Danny's voice.

“It's okay,” Danny promises him, gasping against his lips, “you can let go – I want you to.” Ward can't deny him anything – he groans, low in his chest, and comes. Danny cradles him close, running his hand up and down his heaving back, as he tries to remember how to breathe.

A few moments pass, and Ward pulls back to look at him, searching over his face with a fond gaze. Danny smiles, reaching up to brush a few loose strands of hair out of his eyes.

“Hi,” he whispers, biting shyly on his lower lip.

“Hi,” Ward whispers back, pressing their mouths together for one more kiss.

\- - -

Afterward, they rest.

Danny sprawls on his back, taking up as much space in Ward's bed as he possibly can – he stretches out, arching his back with a satisfied groan. Ward watches him roll around like a puppy and slowly reconsiders some major decisions he's just made.

“No take backs,” Danny informs him cheerfully, burrowing into the sheets. He opens his arms, pouting, until Ward surrenders and curls up next to him, his head on his left shoulder. Sighing, Ward trails his fingers over Danny's chest, pausing at the Chinese characters on his hip. Danny glances down and makes a pained noise.

“What's it mean?” Ward asks, tracing over the intricate lines. “Or does it not mean anything? Daniel Rand,” he sits up, dislodging Danny's arm. “Do you have a tragic Asian fetish tattoo?”

“No!” He laughs, scandalized, and pulls Ward back down on top of him. “No, it means – well, it's supposed to mean strength.” Actively avoiding Ward's amused stare, he grimaces and glances somewhere off to the right. “I'm pretty sure it's accurate, but I've never really checked.”

“Too scared to find out for sure?” Ward teases, prodding at the tattoo.

“Maybe,” Danny confirms, his mouth twisting into a smile. Ward settles on his chest, hand resting just under the dragon covering his sternum, and Danny presses a kiss to his hair as he wraps an arm around his shoulder. “It was the second one I got, so even though it's a little dumb, I don't regret it.” He sighs, and Ward feels his lungs inflate under his cheek. “I don't really regret any of my tattoos – they remind me of who I was when I got them.”

“Which one's your first?” Ward asks, even though he's pretty sure he knows. Danny lifts up his arm and taps the dragon, dead center on his chest. Then he drops his hand on top of Ward's, sliding their fingers together. They're quiet for a moment, and Ward finds himself drifting, comforted by Danny's warmth and the steady sound of his breathing. He lets his eyes slip shut, when Danny starts talking.

“My parents died when I was eighteen,” his voice sounds far away, as if he's reciting a story about someone else. “I couldn't deal so, after the funeral, I just left. I traveled around Asia – spent a lot of time trying to get out of my own head.” He sniffs, rubbing over his eyes, “anyway. I ended up in a shop in Taipei, and decided to get a tattoo. Because why not?”

Ward licks his lips and props himself up on one elbow so he can look Danny in the eye. “I'm sorry,” he says finally, and he hopes he can hear the sincerity in his voice. “I'm sorry you went through that.”

Shrugging, Danny stares off to the side and blinks away tears. “Anyway, I came back to the states after six months of just... fucking around. And, I got this,” he lay his fingers over the characters on his hip. “Kinda to remember my time in Asia, but also to remind myself to be strong. Sorry,” He laughs and clears his throat, waving his hand awkwardly. “I'm sort of killing the vibe here.”

“Danny,” Ward peers down at him, wishing he were better at this – wishing he could give him some semblance of comfort, “I'm sorry you lost your parents. I can't imagine how hard it was to go through that.” Danny sniffs again, and Ward kisses his forehead, letting his lips linger. “I'm sorry,” he whispers against his skin, because he doesn't know what else to say.

“I keep them close,” Danny whispers, his voice catching in a rasp. In a mirror from earlier, he lifts one hand to tap the numbers over his right clavicle. “The longitude and latitude coordinates for the house where I grew up,” he explains, “I got them a few years ago – it just felt like the right time.” Ward watches his face and, after a moment, leans down to press his lips to the numbers. He lets the kiss linger, even as Danny wordlessly threads his fingers through his hair.

They lapse into silence, tucked close to each other in the mess of Ward's bed. Danny lets Ward study his tattoos, walking his fingers across the masterpieces that cover his right arm – it's a less coherent design than his left sleeve, but Ward takes his time in admiring the artistry. The inside of his forearm is taken up by a large anatomical heart, all precise lines and minimal detail – it's very uncluttered and clean. Wildflowers grow out of the veins and arteries, in a macabre, medical bouquet; he ducks his head and presses a kiss to one of the buds. Just above the heart, two thin, black lines wrap around his arm in neat, pristine stripes. There's not a trace of wobble. He follows their circular path, best he can, with his fingernail until goosebumps break out over Danny's skin.

“Okay,” Danny grumbles, capturing his hand and holding it hostage against his chest. “That's enough of that. It's getting late – we should get to sleep.”

So they get to sleep.

Or at least, they try to.

Ward bolts upright, his hair a fluffy mess, and squints blearily around the room. The lights are still on, because they didn't bother to turn them off, and Danny, face buried in a pillow, makes sleepy, groaning noises next to him. He rubs at his dry eyes, trying to figure out why he is even awake at – he checks his phone and scowls – half past three in the morning. Running his fingers through his truly atrocious bedhead, he attempts to flatten his bangs into something less humiliating and sighs. Danny flops a hand in his direction, patting him on the leg.

“Ward,” he complains, “what's wrong?”

“Nothing,” he grunts and clenches his eyes shut, convinced it was just a phantom sound that woke him, “s'fine. I don't –”

Danny raises his head, blinking in half-conscious confusion and Ward stares at his bedroom door with dawning horror, as they both hear it this time – the muffed sound of something breaking down in the shop. A cold sweat breaks out over his bare skin, and Ward's hands start to shake. It's the familiar noise of his door being trashed.

“Shit,” Ward stumbles out of bed, half caught in the sheets, as he pulls on his jeans. “Fuck, shit – not tonight, you son of a bitch.” He rounds on Danny, who's staring at him with wide eyes, and Ward wonders what he looks like right now – manic and shirtless, his pants undone around his hips. “Stay here, don't come downstairs.”

Danny starts moving, despite Ward's warning, and steps into his own jeans. He bounces on his feet as he tugs them up over his thighs. “What's happening? Should we call the cops or something?”

“No!” Ward shouts, anxiety peaking, and Danny startles. Take a deep breath, Ward settles his hands on his shoulders and presses his forehead against Danny's collarbones. “I'm sorry – it's okay. It's just something I have to deal with,” he mumbles into Danny's skin, punctuating his apology with a brief kiss; he's wretched and vulnerable, sick with nerves – the good, sweet, happy feeling of the night is gone – and the last thing he wants Danny to see is his busted up shop. “I'm sorry. Just stay up here, and it's all going to be all right.”

“Nope,” Danny's already lacing up his sneakers as Ward is toeing into his own shoes. “You're not going down there alone.”

Ward's too keyed up to argue, and he can't shake the mounting sense of dread as they creep down the stairs to the darkened store. He never wanted to lie to Danny about the situation with his father – and Danny already knows a little bit about the kind of man Harold is. But knowing someone knocks their son around is a little different from knowing someone intentionally wages psychological warfare against their son, because aforementioned son dared to step out of the family business without permission and actively refuses to come back.

Family, right?

Predictably, the shop is deserted. He feels Danny relax next to him, and he scans over the shelves from their relatively hidden position on the foot of the stairs. Like before, nothing has been damaged besides the door – all the plants left over from the sale are sitting, pleasantly oblivious, in their little pots. Sighing wearily, he shuffles to the broom.

The floor is littered with shards of glass, glittering like stars in the light from the streetlamps outside, and Ward feels tired to the marrow of his soul as he surveys the mess. It never gets old. Mechanically, he begins sweeping, as Danny carefully steps around him and inspects the door.

“Good thing they didn't take anything, huh?” He muses aloud, “has this happened before?”

“Yep,” Ward bites out, trying to keep the venom from his voice. He doesn't like how he feels right now – flayed open to the bone, spread out for anyone to see. “Couple of times.”

“And you really don't want to call the cops,” Danny confirms, raising an eyebrow, as he turns away from the jagged maw of glass masquerading as a door.

“I really don't, Danny,” he knows how he sounds – vicious and mean and he can feel that bitterness chipping away at his heart, and he hates it. “I'll file a report in the morning,” he adds, miserably. “It's the only way to get insurance to cover it.”

Danny studies him for a long moment, and Ward find himself bristling, spiky and hostile under his gaze. “You know who did this, don't you?” He says finally, hands in his pockets; his skin gleams in the dim light of the shop, and Ward wishes he could see his eyes as he shakes his head. “That's why you're not calling the cops.”

“It's complicated,” Ward tries to explain, wincing at the desperation in the words. Danny fixes him with a flat stare, and Ward tightens his grip on the broom. Nausea kicks him in the stomach, and his chest goes tight with panic as he struggles to breathe. This isn't how he wanted to do this.

“How is it complicated, Ward?” He gestures to the broken door with disbelief. “Someone's been fucking with your shop, you know who it is – why not call the cops? Or at least do something. Do you even have security cameras? Jesus, how many times has this really happened?”

“It's my dad.” His skin is clammy – he's shivering in the early morning breeze – and his heart is desperately throwing itself against his ribcage, as if to escape his trauma-infected body. If only they both could, Ward thinks, as he swallows drily around the cotton in his mouth.

“Your dad,” Danny repeats, irritation replaced by a sad sort of understanding, and Ward has to look away from him – can't handle the gentle sweetness of his stare when he feels so raw.

“He hates that I left the company,” Ward explains, and his voice feels so far away – like he's underwater, or like he's describing someone else's pitiful life. “He resents it so much – he hires people to fuck with the shop every so often. He paid my friend Jessica to spy on me.” Ward laughs, though it's acrid and flat, “that was before she was my friend though.” 

Danny's shoulders drop and he just looks unfathomably sad, so Ward shakes his head urgently, hating the shine in his eyes and hating that he's the one who put it there, “but it's okay – because, see, now I don't have to deal with him anymore, right? See, no more suspicious bruises? Or – or mysterious broken bones – so what if he wants to fuck with the shop occasionally? It's fine. I'm _fine_.” Danny approaches him carefully, freeing the broom from his grip and leans it against a shelf. “I'm fine,” Ward repeats as Danny gathers him close, pressing Ward's face into his bare shoulder.

“I know,” Danny whispers against his hair as Ward sobs, clutching desperately at his back. “I know you are.”

\- - -

Clean up is easy with the two of them – Ward makes sure to text Colleen and Karen, reassuring them that he has the situation handled and they definitely do not need to come in; he also leaves a message with Colleen's guy to come by and replace the door.

It's routine, unfortunately.

But it's better with Danny by his side.

They head back upstairs to get dressed; Ward offers Danny the use of his bathroom, but Danny decides to head back to his place to shower and change.

“I'll be back,” he promises, when Ward frowns skeptically. “I will – I swear,” he presses a kiss to Ward's cheek and squeezes his hand. Arms crossed over his chest, Ward watches him go with something like fear in his belly. It's too much – he knows it is – the chaos and instability of his life. He digs his nails into the flesh of his palms, biting down hard on his lower lip, as Danny crosses the street into his tattoo parlor. This is it – he had his chance, and he fucked it up, Danny's never coming back.

As he slips into an anxiety fueled spiral, his phone buzzes in his pocket.

 _I can hear you thinking from here. I promise, I'll be right back – give me twenty minutes, max._ ♥ 

So Danny comes back.

And he keeps coming back.

Time passes, and Danny keeps coming back. Ward finally lets himself believe that he is not irredeemable. They spend most evenings together, and Ward finds it very difficult to leave his bed in the morning, when he knows Danny's still in it. Their little shop families blend together, and Ward finds himself privy to a steady stream of gossip about their not-so-new neighbors, courtesy of Colleen.

He's busy prepping his shop for a late June opening, but Danny still manages to pester him during the day. Ward stays on guard at all times, now, because he's developed a truly disgusting habit of sneaking up on him, wrapping his arms around his waist, and hooking his head over Ward's shoulder to stare down at whatever he's doing at the moment.

(Usually potting plants. Or checking plants for disease. Or talking to plants. Just little Plant Dad things.)

Colleen takes one photo of Danny draped over his back, and Ward almost has a rage blackout. She deletes it (he watches her do it) but not before sending a stealth copy to Danny (which he does not see, to their benefit – he doesn't need to know how often Danny finds himself scrolling back to that picture, smiling gently at how _happy_ the two of them look).

They continue to have sidewalk sales, and Ward stills runs workshops – Danny starts attending, and he drags Claire with him. He isn't sure how much they really absorb from his awkwardly composed lectures, but he appreciates the support. Karen maintains the detailed FAQ plant guides for the website – her latest is an extensive breakdown of plant-friendly plants. Colleen hypes up The Eternal Optimist on Dryad & Co.'s Instagram, as she insists it's the neighborly thing to do; Ward indulges her, because he is a huge supporter of small business solidarity. Also because he's never interfered with their social media before, and he's not about to start now.

Colleen and Claire continue to plan out Colleen's tattoo – Ward thinks they're running with the Vanda Miss Joaquim idea, but he isn't privy to the intricacies of their conversations. Karen starts spending a lot of time scrolling through piercing blogs, trying to narrow down what she wants to get done. Colleen tells him, in a whisper that Karen can definitely hear, that Frank has been helping her shop for jewelry as well. She knows she wants something with opals.

Jessica finally gets a chance to meet the Optimists – they all get together at Luke's one Friday night. Danny keeps an arm around Ward's waist the whole time, as Colleen and Karen excitedly tell everyone about the weird cases that Jessica's been working on. Jessica scowls into her shot glass, all the while pretending she isn't secretly pleased by their fawning. Frank salutes her with his own glass when Karen finishes recounting how Jessica took down a guy twice her size with a set of brass knuckles and a well timed punch.

“He was dodging child support payments,” she says simply, shrugging.

April shifts into May without any more door related violence; Ward isn't sure what to make of the reprieve, but he forces himself not to dwell on it. He has enough to focus on without wondering what unhinged machinations Harold is putting into motion. People were so excited about the new types of plants they had at their anniversary sale that Ward starts ordering more of them to fill the shelves – the Lithops and Haworthia succulents are especially popular. He's not displeased with the increase in stock, though it means he has to get up earlier to pot them.

One such morning in early May, he's alone in the backroom, looking over a Haworthia Retusa – or Star Cactus – with curiosity. Its dark green leaves are thick and blocky, made for storing water, with tapered ends and, despite the name, it doesn't have any spines. He puts it down on the counter and reaches for an appropriately sized terracotta pot, when a pair of warm arms wrap around his waist.

“You're becoming predictable,” he points out as Danny slides one hand up under his shirt to rest over his heart.

“Hmmm,” Danny hums against his neck, mouthing sleepily at his skin, “can't have that.” He clumsily reaches around Ward to nudge the little Star Cactus away from the edge of the counter. Once it's safely out of the way, he takes Ward's hips in his hands and uses his grip to turn him around – Ward lets him manipulate his body, because it's cute to watch Danny try to be coordinated when he's only half-awake.

“How you doing?” He asks, when Danny has them positioned the way he wants – facing each other, with Ward pushed up against the counter. He gives him a slow once over – his curls are all mussed up and in his eyes, and he isn't wearing a shirt, so Ward allows himself an extra few seconds to rake over his tattoos. He never gets tired of staring at them, much to Danny's self conscious woe.

“Great,” he mumbles, barely audible, dropping his forehead to Ward's shoulder; Ward indulges him, running his fingers through his spectacularly messy hair. 

“I thought you were going to sleep in,” he comments mildly, as Danny snuggles as close as he can – he's warm and pliant, all smooth skin and lazy pouting lips.

“Well, I was going to, but then I woke up and you were gone.” He sighs, clearly distressed, “so I was sad about it. And then I thought I'd come down and suck your dick about it.” There's a pause, and then Ward throws his head back in laughter – he can feel Danny snickering against his skin, and he scratches his scalp fondly.

“That was terrible, Danny. Jesus.” Shrugging shamelessly, Danny shuffles back a step, and Ward lets his arms drape loosely around his bare waist.

“But can I?” Danny peers up him, eyes impossibly blue, as he deliberately sucks his lower lip between his teeth.

“Can you what?”

“Suck your dick about it.” He's already dropping down to the floor, but he goes slow, sliding his hands down Ward's legs as he settles back on his knees. “Please?” Swallowing thickly, Ward casts a look around the backroom, though he isn't sure what he's expecting to find – Karen won't be showing up for at least an hour, and the shop isn't due to open for another hour after that. The curtain between the shop floor and the backroom is drawn. They're alone. Danny digs his thumbs into the meat of his thighs and lets his eyes so liquid sweet. “Can I?”

With a sigh, he drops his head back, “okay, Danny.” He tries not to pass out as Danny beams up at him and reaches for his belt. Despite his earlier lethargy, he works deftly to get Ward's jeans open, and he tugs them and his boxers down his hips. With a stuttering breath, Ward settles his hands on his shoulders, smoothing his fingers over the freckles dusted across his skin. He's a little ashamed that he's not fully hard – the pleading lilt of Danny's voice definitely has his blood rushing south, but he's not quite there yet.

“You can touch my hair,” Danny says, nuzzling against his dick to get him hard. “Just don't pull too hard, okay?” Struck dumb, Ward nods and gently sinks his fingers into his curls. “That's good,” Danny sighs, licking a broad stripe over his cock, from root to tip, and Ward chokes.

The room is suddenly far too warm, and his throat clicks as he tries to swallow. Danny has a very talented mouth, and he works at Ward like he has all the time in the world – like he woke up this morning with the expressed purpose of getting his lips around him. Which, knowing Danny, is entirely possible.

Taking a deep breath, Danny holds Ward's cock in his hands – he glances up, indigo eyes gleaming with mischief, and asks, “ready?” Before Ward has the chance to answer, he's swallowing him down. Gasping, Ward does his dead level best to keep his hips still as he clenches his fists. Danny makes a pained noise in the back of his throat, and he forces himself to relax.

“Shit, shit – sorry, are you okay?” Instead of answering, Danny pets over his flank, pushing his shirt up in the process. Ward reaches for the hand Danny presses against his chest, slotting their fingers together, as he loses himself in the wet heat of his mouth. Everything feels loud and overwhelming – he tries to muffle his gasping, panting breaths, as his face flushes red and his mouth drops open. Danny is equally noisy; the filthy sound of him sucking around Ward's dick is undercut by his moans, saliva coating his chin.

His blood is singing, electric hot, in his veins, and Ward takes his hand from Danny's head to clutch at the counter. Better that than accidentally hurting him again. His knuckles turn white and he arches his back – it's too much. His skin feels to tight for his body, and his pulse is thundering in his ears until all he can hear is Danny, happy and purring around his cock. He can't even hear himself begging.

“Holy shit, Danny, please, please – baby, fuck. You feel so good, please. Don't stop.”

Danny is nothing if not eager; he inhales deeply through his nose and swallows Ward down until he can taste him all the way in the back of his throat. Ward keens, his vision whiting out, as he comes. Generous as always, Danny helps him through it, working his lips and tongue over him until he's clean.

“Oh fuck me,” Ward gasps as Danny pulls back – he's absolutely useless, letting Danny sort out his clothes and tuck him back inside his jeans. His chest heaves and he struggles to find his breath as he stares up at the ceiling. Slowly, the world tilts back into place, and he looks down at Danny, who is sprawled out on the floor, leaning back on his hands with a very smug smile on his face.

“Well good morning to you too, handsome,” he drawls with a wink.


	4. final

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Dryad Triad gets ready for Pride, secrets are shared (some more earth shattering than others!), and Ward and Danny continue to fall madly in love with each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a heads up: there is a little bit of daddy kink this chapter -- I realize not everyone is comfortable with that, so I wanted to let you all know now.

A week later, he's sorting through the shipment of Plant Pride Pins – they really want to get them ready for people to buy before the start of June, so they're barely on schedule. Danny is busy at The Eternal Optimist; it's finally ready to be painted, so he's having fun playing around with navy and black wall paint. It keeps him occupied enough that Ward can get some work of his own done.

He looks over the piles of shiny, metal cacti and whistles; Katie's really outdone herself this time. The colors are crisp and bright, and he holds them up to the light to fully admire their vibrancy. After much debate and discussion, they settled on four color schemes – the rainbow flag, the lesbian flag, the trans flag, and the bi flag. Katie worked out designs for each of them, modeled after Karen's original sketches. 

The Rainbow Plant Pride Pin is made of five cactus pads stacked on top of each other with a blooming flower on top, running through all the colors of the rainbow. The Lesbian Plant Pride Pin has a similar mold, with six cactus pads and a bloom on top, working through the pinks and magentas of the lesbian flag. (Ward and Katie worked very hard to develop a workable color scheme for the lesbian pin; they went back and forth on samples many times, but he feels pleased with the overall result.)

The Trans Plant Pride Pin has four cactus pads stacked on top of each other with a flower blooming in the middle, acting as the white stripe between the pale pinks and blues. The Bi Plant Pride Pin is the only one without a flower bloom – it has three cactus pads stacked on top of each other in the dark blue, purple, and pink of the flag. Katie added little silver tick marks to replicate cactus spines, and they shine brightly in the sunlight. (Ward runs his thumb over one of the bi pins and sets it aside to ring up later.)

He picks up one of each and holds them out to Colleen, where she's watering an Echeveria Azulita.

“Trade you,” he says, and her eyes light up as she hands him the watering can. “Go take some pictures. Get people excited.” She scurries off, and he resumes hydrating the plump, blue-gray leaves of the succulent.

“Did the shirts come in?” Colleen asks as she carefully slides the pins out of their plastic packages. She leaves them on the backing cards, decorated with both the shop logo and Katie's online store, and poses them next to some of the baby – _small_ succulents.

“Shirts did come in,” Ward confirms, shifting down the line of thirsty plants. “We'll open them up once Karen gets here.”

“Karen is here!” Karen announces, breezing through the door of the shop. “I don't know if you were actually waiting for me, but I heard my name.” She leans over Colleen's impromptu photo set, cooing with excitement at the enamel pins. “Oh, they look so nice! Katie did an amazing job.”

“Katie always does,” Ward agrees and sets down the watering can. Arching his back, he stretches his arms high in the air with his fingers linked until he feels his spine crack. With a sigh, he shakes out his hands and sets them on his hips. “Pick out some pins if you want them – I'll get them for you.”

“You don't have to keep buying the shop merch for us, Ward,” Karen admonishes.

“It's basically tradition at this point,” he shrugs, “and I don't mind. Might as well put my ill-begotten corporate blood money to use.” Colleen and Karen stare at him, and he spares them a dry smile. “According to Jessica, at least.”

“Where is Jessica, anyway?” Colleen looks around the store, as if she expects her to come stomping through the door at any moment. “I feel like we never see her anymore.”

“She's been working like crazy,” Karen says, picking through the selection of pins with dainty fingers, “but I think she'll be free soon? You know Jessica – she keeps her business private until the job is done. I'll text her that we have new goodies – that usually draws her out. Also, I want this one.” She picks out a rainbow pin and slides it over to Ward before reaching for her phone.

“Noted,” he puts her selection off to the side, next to his bi pin. “I assume you both want one of the new shirts, too?”

“Yes!” Colleen cries, angling her phone around to take pictures of the pins she has nestled among some Echeveria Irish Mint succulents – the pale, seafoam green leaves provide excellent contrast for the bright, popping colors of the pins. “But wait until I'm done – I wanna help open them up, please.”

She spends a few more minutes taking pictures, and Ward finishes watering the rest of the plants. Karen retrieves some ceramic dishes to display their new pins. She also digs out a tiny little chalkboard sign to advertise the details of the pricing.

“Fifteen, right?” She asks, and Ward nods without looking up from tending to a Sedum Himalayan Skies; he moves the little stalks, covered in fleshy, blue-green leaves out of the way to water the soil. “And five dollars from every pin sold is going to the Trevor Project,” she says slowly as she writes out everything on the sign. Ward bobs his head along with her, dodging around the trailing vines of a Hindu Rope Hoya. He spares a moment to brush his finger over the tightly coiled, wax leaves before hydrating its soil thoroughly.

Once their chores are done, the Triad slips to the backroom to dig into the boxes of new shirts. (Ward keeps an ear out for any wayward customers, but it's been a slow afternoon, so he isn't too worried.)

To further embody the inclusive celebration of Pride, they decided to make a new design, modeled after their supremely popular PLANTS! shirt. Ward cracks into a box and starts methodically unloading the plastic wrapped bundles. Colleen and Karen are much less strategic, as they start tearing through the packing to get at the smalls. Karen reaches them first and immediately opens one up – she unfolds the shirt and holds it up in front of herself for approval.

PLANTS  
are for everyone

PLANTS is written in the crisp Helvetica font that many of their styles employ; each letter is a different color of the rainbow (starting with P in red and ending with S in violet). They opted to use the clean, white cursive font from their logo for the phrase 'are for everyone'. They're more expensive than their usual shop tees ($25, instead of $20), but it's for charity – ten dollars from every shirt they sell will go to the Trevor Project.

Ward grabs a medium for himself and two smalls (one he takes directly from Karen's grasp) and leaves the rest of the sorting to Colleen and Karen as he rings them up. After a moment, he takes a quick picture of the little pile of shirts – staged so that the design is clearly visible – and sends it off to Danny.

**You want one?**

The reply is instantaneous and in multiple parts.

_!!!_

and

_yes!!_

and

_oh my god Ward I love it!!_

and

_wait Claire wants one too. and we're gonna get one for Frank lmao he's gonna hate it._

and

_jk he's gonna love it._

and finally, 

_we'll come by later and grab them_

(until he follows with a string of heart emojis a few minutes later.)

Ward takes a deep breath, bracing his hands on the register counter as his card processes, and looks around the shop. Four shirts, one tote bag, five enamel pins, two anniversaries (though one passed with minimal acknowledgment), and an untold number of sidewalk sales later, and he still can't get over the feeling that Dryad & Co. is his – that this _good-happy-free_ feeling isn't going away. 

He fixes his gaze across the street, where Danny is no doubt working hard on painting some kind of massive, abstract mural on the walls of The Eternal Optimist. He imagines that he has flecks of navy and black paint caught in his curls, and he's having the time of his life, messy and smiling.

“Ward!” Colleen shouts his name, as Karen tries to muffle her giggles. “Bring us our shirts! We're doing a photo shoot!”

Colleen poses them around the shop once they're changed (it's routine now), and Ward lets her prop him up against one of the shelves of plants. He stares off to the left, refusing to look into the camera, with his hands in his pockets as sunlight spills across his face.

“Why are you always so fucking serious?” Colleen complains, wheedling him until he cracks a smile. “Stop making this so difficult, you weirdo!” She snaps the picture at just the right second – he's leaning forward, bangs falling across his forehead, and his dark eyes are crinkling with laughter. He doesn't usually participate in her photo sessions – prefers to stay off camera as much as possible – but he has to admit, it's a good picture. Colleen squints down at her phone, wrinkling her nose, until she finally says, “yeah, it's all right.”

He rolls his eyes, shaking his head, as Colleen and Karen start posing for – he will begrudgingly admit – some very adorable selfies. 

As predicted, Jessica stops by the shop about an hour later. He's in the middle of evaluating a Hurricane Cactus – so named for the long, twisting stems serving as leaves – hanging from one of the repurposed clothing racks, when she appears at his elbow.

“What's that?” She asks, far too close to his ear.

“Jesus Christ,” Ward absolutely does not startle, as he turns to glare at her. “Hurricane Cactus. Not drought resistant, surprisingly enough.”

“Cool,” she says in a dry tone, implying otherwise. “I was told there were new shirts.”

“And pins.” With a bright smile, he gestures to the neatly arranged dishes on the register counter. Jessica wanders over, hands deep in her pockets, as she surveys the display. He's about to go back to poking at the cactus when she clears her throat.

“I'm ready. Can you grab me two size smalls?”

“Getting one for Trish?” She shrugs at him. 

“Something like that, yeah.” When he makes it to the register, her requested shirts in hand, Ward notices that she's picked out a pink, purple, and blue plant pin. She stares at him, hard and defiant, though she's gnawing anxiously on her lower lip. He smiles, and she narrows her eyes, mouth curling into a sneer.

“Good choice,” he comments mildly, tapping away at the register screen. “I'm gonna get one for myself later,” he tilts his head, indicating his own pin that he stashed off to the side. 

“Yeah, no shit.” She relaxes marginally with a sardonic smile as he runs her card through the machine.

“I'm just saying – it's nice not to be alone.” Ducking down to grab a paper bag, he carefully bundles up her purchases as he waits for her payment to process. Ward wishes he could say more – he's fully aware they are having A Moment right now – but he also thinks Jessica would kick him in the throat if he tried.

“Don't make this weird, Meachum.”

Jessica sticks around for a while – long enough for Colleen to con her into joining the photo shoot, at least. Ward watches them goof off, which Colleen tolerates for only a few minutes until she grabs him by the hand and makes him join in the fun. Suddenly brave, he retrieves his pin from behind the register. Cocking his eyebrow, Ward holds the Bi Plant Pride Pin up to his face and stares into the camera with a challenging smirk.

Later, she shows him the post before uploading it to their accounts – something she hasn't done since he first put her in charge of their social media presence. Ward wraps an arm around her shoulder as he scrolls through the photos. 

The first one is a group picture of him, Colleen, and Karen, sitting on the floor in front of a shelf full of Pothos Plants – its big, floppy leaves gleam yellow and green behind their heads. Next is a shot of Karen and Jessica, looking extra tough; Jessica has her arms crossed and Karen is propping her elbow on her shoulder as they both stare down at the camera (he's pretty sure Colleen was lying on the floor to get the angle right). His solo photo, where he's looking off to the side, grinning, is after that – he still can't believe that he can look so happy now, that he can laugh so easily, that the self loathing is gone from his eyes. She also includes a picture of the shirt by itself, laid out nice and neat to appropriately display the design.

Following the shots from her photo shoot are close ups of the pins – first, a picture of all four of them with the Echeveria Irish Mint. Then, she took a picture of the Rainbow Plant Pride Pin and the Lesbian Plant Pride Pin next to a Powder Puff Cactus (so named for the fluffy, hair-like spines cover its body) and a picture of the Trans Plant Pride Pin and the Bi Plant Pride Pin resting next to a Crested Button Cactus (its tube-shaped pads grow together in a tangled cluster).

The last picture is of him, again, holding the Bi Plant Pride Pin next to his face. He looks confident – at ease in a way he has never been before. It's a far cry from the obnoxiously pretentious photos he had to take at his dad's company. Colleen watches him closely as his thumb hovers over the photo; he looks down at her phone and nods. This is a version of himself he doesn't hate too strongly, he realizes. Swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat, he reads the caption she's written for the post.

_Here at Dryad & Co. we support everyone – no matter what your gender identity or sexuality is, you are valid and you are welcome here at the shop. We do not tolerate hate, and we want everyone know that they are loved and accepted. In the spirit of Pride month, we are happy to share with you our Plant Pride Shirt and our Plant Pride Pins. Stop by to pick some up for yourself and remember! Plants are for everyone!_

_Shirts are on sale for $25 – $10 from each shirt sold will be donated to the Trevor Project.  
Pins are on sale for $15 – $5 from each pin sold will be donated to the Trevor Project._

_The Trevor Project is a national organization that focuses on suicide prevention among LBGTQ+ youth. We are proud to support them and their mission, and we hope you can help us support them too. You can also donate to the Trevor Project directly @ thetrevorproject.org_

_Join us in the fight to protect LGBTQ+ youth!_

\- - -

That night, Danny comes over after finishing up at The Eternal Optimist. As Ward imagined, he has navy and black streaking through his hair and smudged on his face.

“You couldn't take a shower first?” He complains, even as Danny drags him down for a kiss – he obliges, lets Danny love on him in the entrance of his shop for a few minutes. His embrace is warm, and he pushes Ward up against the door frame as he tries to get his hands under his new shirt. Ward hisses, red cheeked, as Danny buries his face in his neck, tracing along the line of his pulse with just the tip of his tongue.

“Jesus,” he chokes, doing little to discourage his antics as he buries his fingers in Danny's paint-stiffened curls. “What's gotten into you, huh?”

“Just missed you, is all,” he mumbles, worrying his teeth over Ward's skin. “Plus, I saw Colleen's post and – you looked really good, okay? It's unfair.” Ward laughs, rolling his eyes, as he cups his hands around Danny's face.

“C'mere,” he leans down, as Danny rises to the tips of his toes, to press their mouths together. Before Danny can deepen it further, he pulls back, smoothing over his paint speckled cheeks with his thumbs. “Let's go take a shower.”

Danny's hand is solid in his as he leads him through the shop and up to his apartment. They almost make it all the way upstairs without incident, until Danny pins him up against the wall to suck a bruise onto the slope his neck. He works at him, hips rolling against Ward's thigh, until Ward is panting and hard in his jeans. Once he's satisfied, Danny pulls back, licking over his lips with a smug tilt to his smile.

“You said something about a shower?”

Getting undressed is a chore, because Danny is determined to help Ward out of his clothes. He gets distracted in the middle of unbuttoning his flannel when Ward pulls his t-shirt up over his head. And he gets sidetracked while opening his belt because Ward is unzipping his jeans. Finally, Ward pauses, his pants loose and open around his hips, to help Danny take off his shirt and step out of his skinny jeans.

“Jesus Christ,” Ward bats his hands away when Danny tries to get inside his boxers. “Will you stop that?” He opens the glass door of the shower, turns the water on full blast, and shoves Danny under the spray. He steadfastly ignores his startled yelp. “I will be right there – just hold on.” Whatever Danny has to say in response is lost, as Ward shuts the shower door on him.

He takes a breath to steady himself and gathers up the bundles of their clothes. Shaking his head, he tosses them into his bedroom – one of these days, Danny's going to have bring an actual bag of stuff over – and slides his boxers down over his hips. Fully naked, he joins Danny in the shower; steam billows around them, and Danny's skin is already turning pink.

“Was that so difficult?” He snarks.

“Yes, I'm suffering. Comfort me.” Danny demands, already crowding into his space, and starts mouthing kisses across Ward's shoulder. He catches his teeth on the ridge of his clavicle, sucking hard until the skin under his tongue is red.

“Wait, wait,” Ward pushes on his chest just enough to get Danny to look at him. “Let me clean you up first okay? Get the paint out of your hair, at least.” He walks them backwards until Danny is standing under the shower head. His hair goes dark and flattens against his scalp as the water rushes over him; it cashes in his eyelashes, and Ward has trouble breathing for a minute. “Easy,” he whispers, cupping his hands around his jaw line and tipping his head back.

Everything is hot and slick, and Ward clears his throat as he reaches for his shampoo bottle – an expensively bougie product that smells like pine and citrus. Danny's eyes light up with delight.

“I'll get to smell like you,” he purrs, watching as Ward pours some into his palms and works up a lather. Danny steps out of the spray and turns his back to Ward, showing off the huge black and gray Death Head Moth tattooed across his shoulders and back. Under the moth, following the curve of the its abdomen and lower wings are lines of small hexagons, all linking together in compact rows and gradually increasing from the size of dimes to as big as a half dollar. Resisting the urge to trace his fingers over the intricate lines and dense shading, Ward buries his hands in Danny's hair, working the suds in deep.

Danny groans as Ward scratches his nails against his scalp, dropping his head back to give him better access. Soap runs down his shoulders and over the perfect curve of his ass, and Ward struggles to stay focused on the task in front of him. This isn't just an excuse to get his fingers on Danny's hair (again) – he really does want to wash all the paint out.

Once he's sure that Danny's clean, he turns him around.

“Keep your eyes closed,” Ward rasps, once again pressing his thumbs carefully against Danny's jaw to get him to tip his head back. With one hand, he runs his fingers through his hair until he's satisfied that all the shampoo has been rinsed clean. “Okay,” he whispers, guiding Danny out of the spray, “you're all done.”

His cornflower eyes flutter open, and Ward finds himself grinning at the dazed flush on his face – though that might be from the heat of the steam, rather than whatever effect Ward might have on him. Danny reaches for him, settling his hands on Ward's waist, and pulls him close; their chests brush as he tilt his head up for a kiss.

“Please?” He whispers, because he knows how much Ward likes that.

“Since you asked so nicely,” Ward dips his head forward, pressing their mouths together and running his tongue over Danny's parted lips. He lets himself get lost in the wet slick of skin on skin as water cascades over them; the sound of the spray against the tiles masks their gasping breaths and stuttering moans. Ward catches his teeth on Danny's jaw, scraping his canines along the tantalizing slope of his neck and sucking a brilliant, rose bruise into his shoulder.

Danny keens and cradles the back of Ward's head in his big palms, urging him closer and closer, as he presses his cock into the crease of Ward's hip. It is immensely gratifying to get Danny like this – desperate and writhing against him; he tries so hard to make Ward feel good, and Ward jumps at the chance to turn the tables on him.

“How's that feel, baby?” Ward husks against his skin, sliding one hand down Danny's chest. He traces along the whole length of his dick with his knuckle – barely touching – just to make him suffer. “Does that feel good?” Danny whimpers, fingers tightening in Ward's hair. “Do you want more?”

“Uh huh,” he nods, throat bobbing as he swallows. “Please?”

“Of course,” Ward brushes his nose along the soft underside of his jaw, “whatever you want, baby.” The slide of water makes it easy to wrap his hand around Danny, and he works him slowly in a loose grip. He's hot and heavy in his palm and Ward is mesmerized by how Danny's breath skips in his throat when he thumbs over the head of his dick. “What do you need?”

“More, please,” Danny pleads, licking over his lips with his unbearably pink tongue, “I can't feel you – please, Ward?” He grabs Ward's bicep, knuckles white, and he digs his fingers into his arm when Ward tightens his grip. He starts working him faster, twisting his wrist with every stroke, until Danny is breathless and begging. “Please, please – oh Ward, oh Jesus. Shit, fuck, I'm so close. Don't stop, please.” It's easy to get caught up in making him feel good when he sounds so pretty.

Ward nuzzles against his neck, “it's okay, baby, you can let go.” He sucks hard on the sensitive skin behind his ear, and Danny gasps, coming messily all over his hand. 

Chest heaving, Danny drops his head back as he tries to regain his breath. Ward rinses them off, soaping over Danny's boneless body with gentle touches. He returns to himself, blinking lazily, as Ward is washing the shampoo out of his own hair.

“Hey there handsome,” he whispers with a hazy smile, reaching for him. “Can I – do you want?”

“Whatever you want,” Ward assures him.

Later, after Danny has gotten him off with a spectacularly enthusiastic, if slightly uncoordinated, hand around his dick, they cuddle close in his bed. He had to loan Danny a pair of pajama pants – they're a little snug in the thighs and a little long in the legs, but Danny doesn't complain, as he burrows happily into Ward's blankets. He flops on his back, spread out wide against the navy blue bedding, and Ward settles on his side, arm slung over his chest and head resting on his shoulder.

Needy with affection, Danny links their hands, playing unconsciously with Wards fingers and rubbing his thumb tenderly over the swell of his palm. His black nail polish stands out against the slight flush of Ward's skin. Ward lets himself get lulled into a half-awake doze, comforted by Danny's sweet, clean scent. Shifting deeper into the sheets, he drops a kiss to Ward's wet hair and trails his fingertips over his bare shoulder as he sighs.

“Does your dad know?”

“About what?” Ward mumbles, nuzzling into his chest.

“That you're bi.”

Ward inhales deeply and slowly opens his eyes; Danny doesn't cease in his idle caresses, and Ward has to swallow a few times before he can speak. “He does. He raised me and my sister to have no secrets – I used to think it was because he wanted to be involved in our lives. Turns out,” he rolls his eyes, “he just wanted to know if we were doing anything to embarrass him or his company.”

The arm around his shoulders tightens, but Danny's voice is level when he asks, “did he care?”

“Surprisingly, no.” Ward laughs, though it's bitter and hollow. “Said I was less likely to get someone pregnant that way. Though,” he raises his eyebrows to himself, “he also said if I ever brought one of my boys around, I would regret it. So maybe he did care.” It's not hard to remember the disdain in Harold's voice, the way his eyes went empty and dark. “He actually said that – _my boys_. God, what an asshole.”

“Did you do it? Bring a boyfriend around?”

“Once,” Ward admits, “only once.”

They slip into silence for a moment; Danny traces imaginary designs across his shoulder with just the barest of touches, and Ward rubs over his dragon tattoo with the flat of his thumb. Headlights from passing cars play across the ceiling in broad stripes of muted yellow, and he exhales into the growing darkness of his bedroom.

“Did your parents know?” Ward doesn't know if he's allowed to talk about Danny's parents – he doesn't mention them very often, but that might be because Ward never asks.

“That I'm gay?” Ward nods, and Danny laughs, but it's happy and relaxed – not at all how Ward laughs when he's talking about his own father. “Oh yeah, they definitely knew. They were really glad when I told them – I think they just wanted me to be happy, you know?” His voice is wistful and warm, and Ward is struck by the unfairness of it all – that Danny lost both his parents, who loved him, while Harold is still roaming the earth, hateful and poisonous. “They would've liked you,” he says after a moment, dropping another kiss to the crown of Ward's head.

“Oh Jesus.”

“You are likable,” Danny tries to convince him, “when you want to be.”

“I wish I could have met them,” he admits carefully, though he isn't sure he's the kind of man Mr. and Mrs. Rand would want in a relationship with their son. Even so, he hopes he is, and he wishes Danny's parents were still around, if only so he could live up to the expectations they likely had for their son's partners. He hopes they know that he's trying to make Danny as happy as he can.

“Me too. My mom probably would've fought your dad, though. Fair warning.” He laughs, thick in the back of his throat, and Ward presses a kiss to his chest.

“That's okay. He deserves it.”

\- - -

Colleen's Instagram post doesn't exactly spark a wave of outrage, but the energy around the shop has definitely shifted in the week following. Their regulars are incredibly supportive, and the Plant Pride Shirts and Pins are selling well, but Ward feels on edge for no discernible reason. He finds himself peering out the front windows nervously, waiting for something to happen, though he can't figure out what.

(“It's your trauma,” Colleen points out around a mouthful of French Fries one night. “But I get it.”

“If anyone tries anything,” he tells her and Karen, “call the cops.”

“Cops won't do shit,” Jessica points out, taking a generous bite of her burger. “Call me instead.”

“Call Jessica, and then call the cops.” Ward amends.)

Early Wednesday afternoon, he looks up from helping a couple buy a Maranta Lemon Lime (the bright green stripes make a beautiful pattern on the dark green leaves, and they're both very excited to see how it will fit in their apartment) to notice a car parked across the street, a few buildings down from The Eternal Optimist. It's not particularly remarkable – dark gray paint, four doors – but something about it makes him pause.

“See that car?” Karen asks, without looking at him as he wanders over to watch her water a Philodendron Golden Goddess; she splashes the floppy, yellow-green leaves when he nods. “It's been parked there for a while. I haven't seen anyone get out, though. It's not your dad, is it?”

He frowns, eyes narrowed, and crosses his arms over his chest. It's not really Harold's style to make a move in the daylight, and he tells her so. “If I had to guess,” Ward ponders in a dry voice, “it probably has something to do with our new queer-friendly business model.”

“We've always been queer-friendly,” Karen complains, rolling her eyes. “Just because we don't have a rainbow flag in the window – oh Ward,” she looks at him, blue eyes sparkling with delight, “can we get a rainbow flag for the window?”

“I got us one yesterday.”

She spots him as he climbs up on a folding chair to put it up in the front window. There's a tense moment when he loses his balance, flailing and windmilling his arms, and she catches him around the waist so he doesn't tumble to the floor. Customers walking in and out laugh at their antics and offer their own advice – to the left, wait – no, back to right. Isn't it upside down? Trying hanging it vertically instead? Oh, no, it looked better the other way.

They get it centered, finally, and Ward tacks it up – horizontally, right side up, thank you – with a grateful shake of his head. Karen takes a few steps back, abandoning him on his perch, and winks one eye shut as she holds up her hands, fingers in the shape of Ls, to measure how crooked of a job he's done.

“Not bad,” she pronounces. “Now get down from there.”

_Nice flag_ , Danny texts from across the street a little while later. _Buy one for me?_

**Whatever you want baby.** Ward replies before he can censor himself. Sure, there's a sketchy car parked down the street from his shop, but he has a rainbow flag in the window, best friends who support him, and a cute boyfriend who loves him. (He thinks. He's pretty sure. They haven't actually said it, but the evidence is strongly in his favor.) He can afford to be a little indulgent.

_thanks Daddy you're the best._

Ward's brain short circuits – he can physically feel himself lose all rational thought as a wave of heat rushes through his body and honey trickles down his spine. He stares at his phone, mercifully grateful that he's alone in the backroom, and Karen isn't around to peer over his shoulder to read his texts. (Not that she would, because she understands boundaries, unlike every other person in his life.) Regardless, she really doesn't need to see what he looks like right now – mouth open, breath quickening, face flushed.

He can see it in his head. Danny, sprawled back on his bed, hands grasping the metal slats of the headboard as he begs, voice sweet and gasping. His spine curves, flushed, throbbing cock bouncing against his stomach, as he tosses his head back into the pillows. His forget-me-not eyes are closed and his sunflower curls shine gold against the dark navy of his sheets.

_“Please, Daddy? Be good to me.”_

Blinking, he comes back to himself to his phone vibrating in his hand. Ward takes a deep breath, trying to steady the pounding of his heart, as he swipes his thumb across the screen to answer.

“Oh my God, I'm so sorry,” Danny doesn't even give him a chance to say anything before he starts rambling, fast and pitchy with humiliation. “This is so embarrassing – oh my God. Wait, are you alone right now?”

“Essentially, yes,” he looks over the backroom – it affords the illusion of privacy, at least, but he's still going to be careful about what he says. Customers have certainly wandered back there on accident. “Are you?”

“I mean – yeah, basically.” He speaks quieter, now, “Claire definitely thinks something's wrong with me, because I just screamed at my phone and ran upstairs. But, to be fair, she always thinks something's wrong with me, so that's not exactly new.”

“You screamed at your phone?” Ward asks, laughing in disbelief, as something warm and effervescent bubbles in his chest. The overheated feeling from earlier is mostly gone, replaced by the overwhelming affection he has for Danny's antics.

“Yes!” His voice breaks, and Ward laughs harder, running a hand through his hair. “It's not funny, oh my God – this isn't really how I wanted to tell you,” he trails off into a mumble, and Ward imagines his cheeks going pink as he looks away from his phone. “I'm really sorry.”

“What exactly do you want to tell me?” He injects as much fondness into the question as possible – partially, because he knows Danny is currently _dying of embarrassment_ in his apartment, and also because he genuinely wants to hear it. Danny scoffs, and Ward smiles. “I want you to feel like you can tell me anything. I'm not going to be mad at you for telling me what you want.”

“So,” he says, after a long pause, during which Ward waits patiently, “if maybe I kind of like the idea of calling you Daddy...”

“Then that's all right.” Ward assures him, before he can engage in any more verbal gymnastics, and he tries to keep the huskiness of out his voice. Now is not the time for that. “I can't say I hate the idea either,” he clears his throat as Danny snickers on the other side of the line. “But, maybe not in public or around our friends, though?”

“Oh, absolutely – no, it's private. Just for you and me.” His tone softens, “kinda like how you call me baby sometimes.”

“Just like that,” Ward agrees.

“And it's not like an all the time thing,” Danny continues, contemplative and shy, “just sometimes.”

“I'm okay with that,” Ward confirms, leaning back against the table, legs stretched in front of him, and crossing one ankle over the other.

“It's just – you're take such good care of me, and you're so sweet.” Danny forces his voice to go breathy, and Ward imagines him cupping his hands together under his chin as he lets his eyes sparkle (never mind that one hand is occupied with his phone). “And you're _so_ nice to me, Ward –”

“Okay, well, that's enough of that.” Once again rethinking some major commitments he's taken on, Ward cuts him off with a fondly irritated eye roll, and Danny breaks out into laughter. “Jesus, you're a menace.”

“Shit – oh, hey, Claire is yelling for me. I gotta go. Um.” He pauses, struggling with his words, and Ward hears him exhale loudly.

“Thanks for talking to me,” he offers easily, granting him an elegant out.

“Thanks for listening,” smile evident in his voice, Danny starts to ramble. “Okay, now I really need to go – oh yikes, what is happening down there? I love you! Bye!” The call disconnects, and Ward stares at his darkened phone for a second. It immediately starts vibrating, and Danny's name shows up on the screen. He answers, an indescribable joy unfurling behind his ribs, and starts talking before Danny can get a word out.

“I love you too,” he looks around the backroom of his shop, a stupid grin on his face. “Now go help Claire.” Hanging up on Danny's panicked yowling, Ward shakes his head. He can't remember the last time he said 'I love you' to someone – maybe his sister, but that would have been at least three years ago. Certainly none of his brief romances warranted such devotion.

His phone buzzes, just once, to indicate a text message.

_I love you!!_

**I love you too.**

\- - -

The car is gone when he emerges from the backroom, but it comes back the next day. Karen leans her elbows on the register counter, scowling out the front window – she's written down the license plate, because she needed to do something – and Ward waters a Goat's Horn Cactus. He peers down at the little dome, admiring how its ridges spiral out from the yellow bloom on its crown.

“What do you think they want?” She asks, tapping her pen against the notepad where she's noted their plate number.

“To be assholes,” he suggests, shuffling down the shelf to address a Bishop's Cap Cactus. “Are you thirsty too?” He asks, studying its star shaped ribs, “no, I think you're okay.”

“Frank and I are going out to lunch today,” she blurts out suddenly.

“Okay.”

“I'm only telling you in case I'm late coming back.”

“All right.”

“Not that it's any of your business,” she mutters to herself, looking down at the ceramic bowls of pins.

“Sure,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his hip against the table full of plants.

“You've been hanging around Danny too much!” She accuses, pointing at him dramatically. He laughs, and she mimes chucking her pen across the store at him. Unconsciously, he rubs at the back of his neck with one hand, and she raises her eyebrows, tilting her mouth as he pretty much proves her point.

“I hope you and Frank have a wonderful time,” he says at length, choosing to be a good friend and spare her the wealth of teasing she likely deserves.

“Thank you very much,” she acknowledges primly, sticking her nose in the air. The effect is immediately ruined when she starts laughing, but it's a good effort.

Not two hours later, Frank slouches through the shop door. Karen is in the backroom, sorting through the most recent shipment of Plant Pride shirts, and Ward is looking over the plants in the window. All of them thrive under the direct sunlight, but he still likes to check their leaves for scorching.

“Meachum,” Frank greets with a grunt, glancing around the shop – he's visited them a few times, but he always has an air of discomfort around him whenever he mingles with the plants. Ward watches with a secret smile as he reaches out to touch the tiny leaves of a Baby Tears with one finger.

“Hey Frank, Karen should be out in a minute.” He greets, peering at a Ladyfinger Cactus, so named for the way the stems, coated in geometric gold spines, grow together in tight clusters, “how are things?”

“Things are good. Shop's looking great,” he jerks his head in a single nod, not unkind, “Danny's really pulling it together.”

“Okay, I'm ready,” Karen steps out of the backroom with a flourish, and Ward is very grateful that he's close enough to watch how Frank's face changes when he sees here. He hunches his shoulders, suddenly shy, as his lips quirk with a private smile. “Wait, are those assholes still out there?” She joins Ward at the window, glaring fiercely down the street.

“They are indeed,” Ward confirms drily.

“What assholes?” Frank's voice goes dark, a threat rumbling in his chest.

“Those assholes,” Karen gestures with her chin to point out the car that hasn't moved since earlier that day. “They were parked there all day yesterday, and they came back this morning. Haven't moved since.”

“Bigots gotta get their entertainment somewhere,” Ward comments mildly, holding a Sedum Firestorm at eye level. Its thick, lime green leaves are edged with vibrant pink, and he nods appreciatively at its steady growth. “They haven't even done anything, either which is – oh, there he goes.”

Karen and Ward watch as Frank strides purposefully out of the shop. He carries himself like he's ready for a fight – shoulders squared and hands clenched into fists at his side – and he walks down the middle of the street, face thunderous with intent. The car engine revs to life when he gets within a few feet of it; he takes one step out of the way as it rolls past him, and he stares after it until it's long gone.

Inside the shop, Ward and Karen share a celebratory fist bump.

Once it's clear that the car isn't coming back, Karen jogs across the street to join Frank. Ward waves obnoxiously at them through the shop window when they walk by. She wiggles her fingers at him, and Frank gives him a very serious nod.

(He gets a text from Karen later with Frank's number. She tells him that, if the car comes back, he should just let Frank know and he'll handle it. Ward mentally revises his “in case of emergency plan” to: call Jessica, call Frank, _then_ call the cops.)

Colleen comes in about an hour after Karen's left, her laundry basket propped on her hip. Ward is busy tending to some freshly potted Variegated Airplane Plants – the sickle shaped leaves are streaked with yellow and green, hence the designation of 'variegated' – and he nudges them further back on the shelf for safety as she breezes past him.

“Hi Ward.”

“Hi Colleen.”

“Just doing my laundry, Ward.”

“Sounds good, Colleen.”

The rest of the day is spent in a state of semi-productivity. He sweeps the shop, and Colleen takes about a dozen pictures of the plants. She also reminds him to order more of the Plant Pride Pins, because they're definitely going to sell out soon. He makes sure to tell her about the car that was hanging around – has her take a picture of the note where Karen wrote down the license plate number. (Karen never actually comes back from her lunch with Frank, but neither of them are surprised.)

“Can I interview you?” She asks him suddenly, as he's studying some of their hanging plants. “To post on the website, I mean. I was thinking it would be something for Pride.”

“What about, exactly?” Ward squints at her, considering; Colleen is sitting still, not bouncing her foot or fussing with the pens scattered across the register in front of her. She's pinned him with her stare, eyes dark and curious.

“I was thinking you could talk about your experiences with being bi and with running a business. Not necessarily how they, like, inform each other or whatever, but just talk about where your different identities overlap.”

“Colleen –” He turns to her and tucks his hands in his pockets. She looks so earnest, and he's trying to find the words to explain that he doesn't want to capitalize on his identity like that. That he appreciates what she's trying to do, but he's not going to leverage this personal part of himself for a gimmick.

“So, I think I'm gay,” she finally says, looking away from him as her voice cracks, and tears fill her eyes. Silence stretches between them, and she wipes her nose on the back of her hand; he's struck suddenly by how young she looks in this moment.

“Thanks for telling me,” he leans on the register counter next to her, ducking his head close to hers.

“I mean – I'm still trying to figure out what that means for me, exactly? But, like. Girls are _so_ pretty.” She laughs wetly, and he nods – she's not wrong. Scientifically speaking, girls are so pretty.

“They are,” he agrees, bumping his shoulder against hers. Something inside his chest splinters at the sight of her tears, but Ward does his best to bury his own feelings.

“But, like, there are some boys who are pretty too.” She sounds only the slightest bit tortured by this fact, so he wraps his arm around her.

“You can like both,” he reminds her gently, squeezing her just a little. “You're allowed to like both.” Ward tries to remember what it was like when he came out – Joy said something about how she'd always support him, no matter what, but they never spoke of it again. Harold had gone off on a truly upsetting diatribe, as was his nature. Clearing his throat, he hopes he's doing a better job with Colleen than his family did with him.

“Gee thanks.” Her voice is dry, despite the dampness in her eyes, and she sniffs again. “Ugh, I'm a mess.”

“Comes with the territory,” he tweaks her ponytail, and she wrinkles her nose in disdain. “I mean it, though – thank you for telling me. It means a lot to me. I'm really proud of you.”

Sighing, she wraps her arms around his middle, and they're quiet for a long minute, until she asks, “does that mean I can interview you?”

“Talk me through what you're thinking,” he laughs, “and we'll see.”

Over the next half hour, they come up with a working scheme of questions she can ask him – it's still a work in progress, but she definitely has the bare bones of a solid idea. Plus, he gets her to start laughing again. That feels like the biggest win of the day.

“Do you want me to buy you a pin?” He holds up the enamel pink, purple, and blue cactus, but she shakes her head, ponytail bouncing.

“Not yet. I don't know if I'm quite there? Is that okay?”

“Sure, Colleen. Whenever you're ready.” Smiling down at her, he drops his hand on the top of her head. She immediately shakes him off.

(About an hour before closing, she jerks upright from her slouched position behind the counter – “Shit! My laundry!” – and bolts upstairs.)

\- - -

The next day, Jessica comes by just before closing – Colleen and Karen are already gone for the day, and he's alone in the shop, hands wrapped around a Bear's Paw Plant. She eyes the fuzzy, lime-green plant with trepidation, and he holds it up to her face.

“What is that?” She asks, flipping her black hair out of her eyes with a jerk of her head.

“Bear's Paw,” he informs her, “because the leaves are shaped like little bear paws.” And they are – along the curved edge of the chunky paddles are little points, resembling the claws of a bear. Reaching out with one finger, she pokes at the wobbly succulent.

“Cute,” her voice is flat, and she flicks her eyes from the plant to his face. “I need to talk to you.”

Closing up doesn't take long – he locks the front door and turns off the lights, so that the shop is bathed in dark amber streaks from the setting sun. It's routine, and he does it all one-handed, as he's still holding onto the Bear's Paw. Jessica watches him shuffle around with her arms crossed over her chest; he feels the weight of her unblinking gaze as he shuts down the register.

They settle in the backroom. Ward sits at the table, the Bear's Paw in front of him, and Jessica props herself up against the counter; she takes a deep breath and looks away from him, to where the Echeveria Purple Pearl leaves are sprouting roots in their little propagation trays. She reaches for them without touching, her fingers hovering in the air above the soft lavender-gray cuttings.

He wants to ask her what's wrong, but he knows better than to pry – that's a good way to get a kick to the throat. Instead, he wraps his hands around the terracotta pot in front of him and listens to the soft music from yet another one of Colleen's playlists. (She's been favoring City Girl lately, so there's been a lot of gauzy piano and delicate strings layered over drum beats playing in the shop.) After a moment, she sighs and nods to herself.

“Your dad's gonna be in the news pretty soon,” Jessica says, dragging her teeth over her bottom lip. “And I thought you should hear this from me, before you see it somewhere else.”

“What's he done this time?” Ward narrows his eyes – it's not unusual for Harold Meachum to show up in the press every so often; he has his fingers in a lot of business pies. Something tells him Jessica isn't talking about the Business Section of the New York Times, though.

“Oh, he's being investigated by the FBI.” She nods, finally looking at him.

“Well shit,” he blinks rapidly, mind going blank as he tries to force himself to focus. Static fills his ears, and he feels very far away from his body. His vision starts to white out – he shuts his eyes, taking a deep breath against the rising tide of confusion and panic assaulting his nerves.

“I've been looking into his company for a while – checking out his financials and I have to say, your dad is a shady motherfucker.” She shrugs one shoulder, “but that's not exactly news. I have some inside sources who worked with me –”

“You said it was the FBI,” Ward interrupts her, quiet and biting, as he jerks up to look at her with an incredulous stare. “You just said the FBI was – you've been investigating my father?”

“Yes,” Jessica answers simply, because she's never been one to bullshit him. It's not her style.

“For how long?” His voice catches, and he knows he's scared of her answer. Nothing feels real, and he's fumbling to make sense of it all. The world is tilting off its access, and he's besieged by vertigo. This was supposed to be his safe space – Dryad & Co. was supposed to be safe for him. He was supposed to be protected from the underhanded dealings of his father's corporate world.

“Since last September. I handed off my files to the feds in February.”

“September,” he gags, chest heaving, as he struggles to catch his breath. His mouth tastes bitter and ashen. “That long? But, my – my birthday was... And Karen's –” She waits him out, lets him get control of himself, and he licks over his dry lips as he swallows. “So do you work for the FBI or what?”

“No – ha, no.” She barks out a laugh, shaking her head, “I did my own digging and, when I realized how bad it really was, I reached out to my contacts. They took what I had and used their own resources to build a case.”

“I have one more question,” he says, carefully. Nausea kicks against his diaphragm and he exhales, low and slow. 

“Okay.”

“And I need you to answer me honestly.” He narrows his eyes at her, and, to her credit, she doesn't look away from him. She squares her thin shoulders, holds his gaze, and lets him stare. Jessica is strong – he knows this, has heard the stories – but she's small, wiry in a way that makes his heart hurt. She's been through something (she doesn't share much about her past, but he knows she's haunted), and she buries her trauma deep. But she brought cupcakes to their birthdays. And she takes pictures with Colleen and Karen. And she bought a Panda Plant, which she still hasn't named yet. And she's never lied to him before.

“Okay,” she says again with a serious nod. Mouth dry and skull full of cotton, Ward presses his hands against the table and bows his head. The Bear's Paw is still in front of him – it's a truly improbable succulent, he reasons. The stalk and stems are thin, spindly things, and it should be bowing under the meat of its fleshy leaves. It should be too weak to carry the weight of itself, but it still stands tall. He runs his finger under the soft, convex belly of one leaf, smiling slightly when it bounces against his touch.

“Why?”

Eyebrows raised, she rolls her tongue in her mouth, pressing it against the inside of her cheek as she considers. “Okay, not the question I was expecting, but all right.” Jessica nods and paces around the table – she points at the empty chair across from him, and he bows his head in acceptance. “So, when your dad hired me last year,” her mouth twists and she pauses for a moment. “I don't always look too deeply into my clients when I take a job, but your dad – man,” she shakes her head. “Your dad is a monster.”

If she's waiting for a reaction, he isn't going to give her one, so she continues. “I did a little bit of digging into your dad when he first hired me, and I found the usual skeezy shit you'd expect with a corporate lifer like him. And I looked into you,” she looks at him through the hair falling into her eyes, “and, from what I saw, I formed an... opinion about you.”

“Which was?” He asks before he can stop himself – and he should stop himself, because he knows she isn't going to lie to him. Judging by how she tilts her eyebrows and refuses to look at him, she wants to. After a tense moment of silence, she sighs.

“Not flattering. But, I figured I could take money from one asshole to watch another. Sorry,” she shrugs, “I don't think you're an asshole anymore. Your dad, though, is definitely a major asshole. Let the record show. And then I quit working for him, and uh. You know. I got to know you and Colleen and Karen more.” She looks away, pale cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

“Friends.” Ward supplies, “you're looking for the word 'friends', Jessica.”

“Fuck off,” she spits on autopilot. “But yes, we became _friends_. But I couldn't get over what I found out about your dad. So, I kept looking – kept finding leads to follow and people to talk to.”

“And people at the company helped you?” For some reason, that's the hardest thing to believe – Harold patrolled the halls like a shark, constantly hunting for something to sink his serrated teeth into. Ward can't imagine anyone being brave enough to stand against him and his money.

“Some,” she confirms, with a wry smirk he can't even begin to untangle. “Legally, I'm not allowed to tell you their names, though.” Not surprising, if people are going to be called as witnesses in a federal investigation.

He nods, letting his eyes close as he tries to make sense of it all. She leans across the table, resting her hand an inch away from his, fingers outstretched by not touching. With a deep breath, he reaches over to cover her hand with his.

(She permits this for about thirty seconds.)

\- - -

About two hours later, Ward finds himself standing on the sidewalk outside The Eternal Optimist, his hands jammed in his pockets. He rocks back on his heels, tipping his head to scan up the full length of the building. The air is warm, heavy with the promise of rain, and he inhales deeply, letting the smell of petrichor catch in his lungs. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and he turns his head just in time to catch the sparks of lightning, far off on the horizon. Everything is suddenly tight – he feels too big for his body, skin stretched tight like a cage over his bones and blood. He pulls his hands out of his pockets and drums his fingers against the outside of his thigh. There's a buzzing building in his ears, and what he wouldn't give for a drink now– 

“Hi there, handsome.” Danny props himself up in the doorway of his soon-to-be-finished tattoo parlor, thumbs hooked in his belt loops. He's not wearing a shirt, because why would he be, at almost eleven at night? “What brings you to my side of the street?”

Ward blinks, didn't even hear him approach – knows he should say something flirty – something teasing about how he's trying to find company for the night, preferably someone dangerous with lots of tattoos, and could Danny maybe help him out with that? – but he can't find the words. Because it's about to rain, and Danny is smiling at him like it's the easiest thing in the world to do, and the gold spilling out of the streetlamp is catching in his curls, and Danny is looking at him like he's never going to look at anyone else in his entire life.

He wonder what he looks like right now, because he feels his eyes get wet and his breath catches in the back of his mouth, and he knows exactly where the closest bar is, except Danny is striding towards him, reaching for him with his rose covered hands.

“You're not wearing shoes,” Ward notices, voice scraping against his throat, “what are you doing outside? You're going to hurt yourself.”

Danny shakes his head and cups his palms around Ward's cheeks; he studies him closely, meeting his eyes with a searching stare, until his concerned frown softens into something melancholy and sweet. The first few drops of rain start to fall – they can hear them hit the pavement hard – and Danny lets go of his face to take his wrists instead.

“C'mon, let's get inside.”

A blast of cold air greets him when they enter the shop, and Ward looks around, eyes wide – it's the first time he's been in the shop, he's realizing. Danny is still hovering in the entrance, next to a door marked private – it must lead up to his apartment, Ward thinks distantly. Even so, he walks past him to properly take in the space; the walls are exposed brick, painted over with white – except for the west wall, which is occupied by a massive navy and black mural. Ward gazes around, but he's not taking in anything – he's shaking and struggling to catch his breath. The world tilts, and he stumbles, sweat gathering on the nape of his neck.

“Okay, okay,” Arms catch him around the waist and guide him carefully to the floor. “Let's just sit here for a minute, all right?”

Ward blinks, and he's suddenly lying down. Danny is propped against the wall (which can't be comfortable against the bare skin of his back), with Ward half sprawled over his lap. His legs are extended in front of him, and Ward can see the tattoos on the tops of his feet – an anchor on the left, and a lighthouse on the right. Gentle fingers are playing softly through his hair, tucking the loose strands behind his ears and away from his eyes.

The rain is falling in earnest outside; he can hear it beating against the roof, and thunder rumbles every closer.

He swallows, throat clicking in the quiet, but the fingers in his hair don't stop petting him.

“You okay?” Danny says, voice barely above a whisper, and Ward nods against his thigh, rubbing his cheek on the worn denim under his face. “That's good.” There's a hint of a question tacked on at the end, like he wants to ask what's wrong, but he doesn't press. Just keeps smoothing over his scalp with his fingernails.

“I'm sorry,” he croaks, trying to beat down the shame curdling in his belly. “I didn't mean to –”

“Don't apologize,” Danny hushes him, trailing his thumb along the curve of Ward's jaw. “Never apologize for your feelings.” He catches Ward's hand and brings it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to his palm. “I don't want you to feel like you have to hide anything from me.”

They fall quiet, and the only sound is rain drumming on the roof in a sharp, steady thrum. Ward runs his hand up and down the length of Danny's shin, eyes unseeing, as Danny continues playing with his hair. His heartbeat slows into something more manageable – less frantic and sick, under the weight of Danny's hands on him.

“I think my dad's going to get arrested.”

“Okay. That's a lot – but, okay.” Danny says after a pause.“How do you feel about that?” With a gusting sigh, Ward lifts himself out of Danny's lap and props his head against his shoulder. Danny slings his arm over his back, hand cupped over his hip, and presses a kiss to his bangs.

Finally, he sighs, “I don't know,” he squints in consideration as he nuzzles against Danny's skin. “Jessica just told me – I'm still trying to process.”

“Jessica?” His voice pitches with surprise, and Ward huffs out a breath of laughter. Danny rests a hand on his thigh and squeezes.

“Yeah. Uh, apparently, she's been investigating him since September? Just, like, on her own.” He raises a hand in disbelief, eyes wide, “so, that's kind of weird. She found enough to get the FBI involved – said she handed off the case back in February.”

“Jesus,” Danny leans his head back against the wall, “I – okay. Well. How do you feel about that?”

“I wish I knew,” he mumbles, scrubbing a palm over his face. “Two and a half years ago? She'd be gone. I would have closed the door on her and cut her out of my life. But now?” Ward swallows around a sob. “Jessica's my _friend_ – I know that. And I know she wasn't trying to hurt me. I honestly think she was trying to help, in her own, weird Jessica way. I just –” He cuts himself off, gnawing on his lip. “I just want him out of my life.”

“Prison would probably make that happen,” Danny observes drily. Lightning arcs across the sky, briefly illuminating the shop and catching on the shine in his eyes.

“Is it wrong that I don't care what happens to him? I mean, after all the shit he did to me, I guess it makes sense. But it's fucked up, right?” Ward asks, finally, because he thinks that the worst part – he doesn't care if Harold goes to prison. He doesn't care if Harold dies, which should be a truly upsetting thought to encounter, but it isn't. He feels numb about Harold's future, as long as that future doesn't include him. “Sons are supposed to care about their fathers, right? But I don't – I mean, he could get hit by a car, or something, and I wouldn't care. Isn't that fucked up?”

“Fathers are supposed to care about their sons first,” he says. 

Ward blinks, struck dumb, “I – yeah. You're... not wrong.”

“Are you mad at Jessica?”

“No,” Ward shakes his head, surprised by his own admittance. “I'm not mad. I feel like I should be, though. But I'm not. Is that weird? And, I know Harold's a monster – I have the medical reports to prove it. But, I feel like I should care if he goes to prison.”

“Don't worry about what you should be feeling,” Danny suggests, his voice suspiciously level despite the anger in his eyes, once again lacing their fingers together. Ward looks down at their hands – Danny's black nails look especially dark against the glow of his pale skin. “If you're not upset with Jessica, then that's okay. And if you don't care about your dad, that's okay too. Honestly, that's more than okay because your dad's an asshole, and I hate him. I hate what he did to you. How he made you feel. He deserves a punch to the dick.”

“Colleen's starting a club,” Ward offers.

“Good. I'm in – Team Dick-Punch Ward's Dad.” Ward laughs, and Danny nudges a kiss against his temple. They're quiet for a moment, and Ward uses the pause an excuse to take in the shop. The floor plan is open – the reception desk is stationed right near the door, and a few black, cushioned tables are folded up neatly against one wall. Framed art pieces are hung up throughout the space; the bold colors stand out nicely against the stark, white brick. Ward recognizes some of Claire's floral work – gossamer, watercolor peonies and bright, bombastic sunflowers – and he smiles.

There's a metal spiral staircase leading up to an open loft, where he can see another cushioned table and some glass cabinets, full of jewelry. He's too far away to see anything, but he imagines they're the highest quality – something tells him Frank wouldn't settle for anything less.

He drops his gaze down to the west wall, where a massive mural spans the whole length of the shop. It's all black, navy, and white – dramatic, blocky lines – and Ward knows instantly that Danny designed the whole thing. A single lighthouse stands on a bare shoreline, protecting it from a roiling sea. It shines a beam into the choppy waves, illuminating a fierce sea dragon. The leviathan’s mouth is open, showing off rows of teeth, but the lighthouse stands strong.

The Eternal Optimist, indeed.

Thunder rolls over them, and Ward can't help but glance up at the sound. Danny drops a kiss to the back of his hand and gets off the floor; he uses his grip on Ward to pull him up as well. “Do you want me to walk you back? I'll even put on shoes.”

Ward looks down at Danny – barefoot, shirtless, looking so at ease in the skin he fashioned for himself – and gathers him close. He buries his face in his sweet smelling curls – mint and possibly apple? – as Danny loops his arms around his waist, resting one hand low on Ward's back, just under his t-shirt.

“I love you,” he mumbles into his hair, and Danny's fingers spasm against his spine.

“I love you too,” he whispers back.

“Can I stay with you tonight?” Ward asks, and Danny draws back to gaze up at him. “Please?” He adds, his voice going velvet quiet. Rising up to his tiptoes, Danny presses their mouths together and swipes his tongue across Ward's lower lip.

“Whatever you want.”

Danny takes a hold of his hands and leads him back to the door by the shop entrance. A thrill runs through him at the idea of seeing his bedroom for the first time – all the evenings they've spent together have been at his place, mostly because Danny's shop has been under construction for so long. And because Ward likes getting up early to tend to the plants before opening. Now, though, he follows after him, staring at the moth on his shoulders and the hexagons spilling down his spine.

They fall into his dark gray sheets, pulling ineptly at each other's clothes. Danny gets his shirt of – throws it carelessly over his shoulder – and gets to work latching his mouth to Ward's newly bared chest. He licks over one nipple with the flat of his tongue, and Ward jerks at the rough caress, threading his fingers through Danny's hair, as his dick hardens in the confines of his jeans. He has to remind himself not to pull too much as he writhes, digging his heel into the plush mattress beneath him.

Danny smirks – he can feel the scrape of his teeth against the sensitive skin of his nipple – and he grabs Ward's hips in both hands. The air punches out of Ward's lungs as Danny uses his leverage to get his thigh between Ward's legs and grind up against his cock.

“Jesus,” he gasps, “what has gotten into you?”

“Wanna take care of you,” he smiles, a kitten slip of canines, “wanna get you out of your head.” He kisses a line across Ward's chest to lavish attention on his other nipple. “Is that okay?”

“Uh huh,” he rolls his hips against Danny's leg, hooking his knee over his thigh, as he pants. His breath is loud in his ears, even with the noise of the storm outside. “That sounds great.”

“What do you want?” Danny cranes his head to whisper against his mouth, their lips brushing as he speaks. He opens Ward's belt and gets his pants undone with one hand. “Tell me how to make you feel good,” he cups his cock through the thin fabric of his boxers, rubbing his palm over the growing bulge.

“Shit, fuck –” Ward tosses his head back, clenching his teeth. “Want you to fuck me. How's that sound?”

“Yeah?” Danny asks, face breaking out into a smile as lightning splits the sky open. “I want to – are you sure?” Ward nods, voice lost to a keen as Danny works his fingers around him. “Use your words,” he pauses, mouth twisting with cruelty, “ _Daddy_.”

Ward chokes, bucking against his hand, “yes, I'm sure, I want you to fuck me – holy shit, you're a _menace_.” Danny laughs, pressing their lips together and licking into Ward's mouth with a singular focus. Breathing hitching in the back of his throat, Ward winds his arms around Danny's shoulders and shifts his legs apart to cradle him between his thighs.

They get lost in kissing each other, tongues sliding together, and Danny covers him with his body, using his weight and warmth to anchor him to the bed. He's never had a partner before who enjoyed kissing like Danny does – he could spend hours mapping out the intricacies of Ward's body with just his lips and tongue, languid and curious and happy. Sighing, Ward sifts his fingers through Danny's hair, and Danny pulls back, gasping, to rub their noses together.

“How you doing?”

“Good,” he slides his hands down Danny's chest and starts fumbling with his belt. “Wanna get you naked,” Ward whispers, leaning up to nip along the curve of his jaw.

“You got it,” he drops one more kiss to Ward's mouth and moves off him, finishing what Ward started and kicking out of his jeans and boxers. He's a flailing, golden mess – his feet get tangled, and Ward can't help but laugh as he slides his own jeans down his legs. Getting undressed with Danny is always a little ridiculous; he's easily distracted by the sight of Ward pulling off his clothes, and he inevitably wants to help. Thankfully, Ward manages to get mostly out of his pants before Danny is back on top of him.

“Okay, okay,” he rolls his eyes, still laughing, as Danny latches onto his neck, worrying over the sensitive skin with his teeth. He has a fixation, Ward's realizing, with leaving marks on him. It's endearing, to be sure, Ward thinks as he sucks over his collarbone and presses his thumbs into the creases of Ward's hips. Lots and lots of marks.

Heat builds in his veins, singing through his blood, until he feels feverish and dazed under Danny's searching fingers. Danny ruts against him, grinding their cocks together, and Ward can't help his keening gasps, as Danny smirks against his pulse. Thunder crashes above their heads, hard enough that the shop seems to shake – or maybe that's just him, as Danny curls his hand into a loose fist around his dick and starts stroking.

“Wait –” Ward's breath hitches. “Not yet. Want you to fuck me first.”

“Yeah?” Danny asks, eyes electric against the blinding cracks of lightning. “You're ready?” At Ward's nod, Danny reaches for his bedside table, and Ward rests his hands on his ribcage – one hand over the bridge on his left flank – while he rummages around in the drawers. “What do you want?” He asks, once he's found the lube and condoms.

“Let me up?” Ward lays his hands on Danny's stars, pushing just a little, as he rolls off him to rest on his side. He watches, tracing over the sinuous curve of Ward's back, as he turns over onto his knees and braces his hands on the headboard. “Is this okay?” His mouth goes dry when he catches Danny's stare – his cobalt eyes have gone dark, and he sits up, smoothing his palm over the notches of Ward's spine.

“Definitely,” he inhales sharply, cupping his hand around Ward's ass. “Yep, absolutely, uh huh.”

“Happy to have your approval,” Ward ducks his head to hide his grin.

“Always,” Danny acknowledges with just a hint of wonder, “fuck – you look so good, Ward.”

“Yeah? What are you gonna do about it?" Danny gets him behind, digs his thumbs into the dip of his lower back, and stares over the expanse of his shoulders with a considering smile. He drapes himself over him, nudging his knees further apart, and kisses him, open mouthed and lingering, just at the base of his neck.

“Ready?” He asks, voice quiet against the heavy drumbeat of rain on the roof, and Ward nods, dropping his head low. Danny pulls away, and there's a soft click as he uncaps the lube, followed by the sound of him squeezing some over his fingers. “I'm gonna go slow,” he warns, pressing a finger inside him.

“You don't have to,” Ward argues, tilting his hips back and grinding against his hand.

“Maybe I want to.” Danny's back to dropping kisses on his shoulders. “Maybe I want to take my time with you, _Daddy_.” Ward shakes his head, cheeks going red at the way Danny scrapes over the word. Danny laughs, “it works, right? It's good?”

“Yeah,” Ward chokes out, “it's good. I get the appeal.” Danny works him on one finger, pushing and stroking over him in a torturous rhythm before adding a second.

“Still okay?” He asks, crooking his fingers and making Ward arch his back with a whine.

“Uh huh,” it comes out as a hitching inhale, as Danny twists his fingers deep. Ward exhales slowly, catching his lower lip between his teeth, as he pushes back against Danny's hand. “You feel good, baby.” He tightens his grip on the headboard, knuckles bleaching out, and lightning splinters through the churning darkness of the storm. His breathing is too loud, even with the cacophony of the rain, and his mouth drops open with every heaving gasp.

“I wish you could see how good you look,” Danny marvels, and Ward swallows, “shit – Ward. You're perfect.” Barking out a laugh, he shakes his head, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through his body at Danny's flattery. “I mean it,” he insists, hooking his fingers in a way that has Ward seeing stars. “I love you,” he whispers.

“Love you too,” he whines, as Danny drips more lube over his hand and presses in a third finger. The stretch doesn't hurt, and he cants his hips, seeking friction, as Danny works him open, sweet and slow. Ward hisses between his teeth, dropping his head between his shoulders; his cock is hard and dripping between his legs, and he's absolutely going to lose his mind if Danny doesn't start fucking him soon.

“Easy,” Danny soothes him, rubbing along his spine with his hand, “you're all right.” He presses a kiss to Ward's ear, burying his face in his hair.

“I'm ready,” he grits out, “please.” Danny tuts in warning, nuzzling against him, and twists his fingers.

“Not yet,” he counters, “have some patience. I don't want to hurt you.” Ward sighs, trying to catch his breath, as Danny strokes over him with a kind cruelty. He angles his wrist just right, fingers deep, to get him begging and gasping. Everything narrows to the drag of Danny's fingers inside him, and Ward's nerves are buzzing, pulled tight and ready to snap. Sweat gathers along his spine, dripping along the notches of his vertebrae, and Ward feels like a mess – open, wet, and loose for Danny's whims. “How you doing, handsome? Think you're ready?”

“Uh huh,” Ward nods, “I'm good – please, I'm ready.”

Danny settles on his knees behind him, and Ward listens as he opens the condom and rolls it over his cock. Then there's the filthy, wet sound of him slicking himself up, and Ward takes a deep breath. Danny asks again if he's ready, and then he's pushing in.

The stretch of him is intense, and Ward feels like the air is being punched out of his lungs – Danny has extolled the virtues of Ward's dick at length, as if he isn't carrying something substantial of his own. He's big, feels even bigger as he presses against Ward, and Ward's gasping, fingers spasming against the wooden headboard, until all he knows is the fullness of Danny inside him.

“Oh Jesus,” Danny huffs, dropping his head to press against Ward's sweat-slick back as he bottoms out. “You okay? How do you feel?”

“I'm okay – just. Give me a second.” His voice is a rasping groan, as he tries to get his body to adjust. His heart is kicking against his chest, throbbing in his ribs all the way down to his cock. He feels overwhelmed, like he's burning up from the inside.

“Sure, of course, whatever you need,” Danny pets over his side in long, low strokes, panting against his skin. “Jesus, you feel so good. You're perfect, Ward – you're so, so perfect.” Ward laughs, licking over his lips, as thunder tumbles through the night.

“I'm ready,” he says, “you can move – I'm ready.”

Danny fucks him like he's a gift – like it's an honor to be here with him, and there's no other place he'd rather be. He keeps one hand on Ward's hip, fingers digging in and holding tight, and braces himself on the headboard, thumb brushing Ward's pinky. He angles his cock deep, trying to find the best way to make Ward whine – he considers it a personal challenge to drag as many noises out of him as he can.

Not that he's very quiet himself. He's full of praise, pleading curses, and deep, choked-off groans as Ward tightens around him. His hips stutter, rhythm broken, until he settles into a steady pace; the sound of skin-on-skin is loud, even when the thunder breaks the sky open with a shuddering growl. He nuzzles against Ward's shoulders, mouth open his teeth scrape over the skin of his neck.

“Ward, what do you – tell me what you need. Want to take care of you,” he begs, fucking him deep with hard, rolling thrusts.

“Faster, can you –? Please, is that –” Ward whimpers, arching his back into Danny's chest. Danny nods, shifting back on his knees and taking Ward's hips with both hands. Using his grip as leverage, he presses in hard and fast, until the whole bed is shaking in time with their fucking. “Shit, yeah, that's so good – thank you. You're so good, baby.” With an embarrassingly loud whine, Ward stretches back, seeking Danny out with one hand.

“Right here,” Danny promises, catching his fingers, “I'm right here, I promise.” He pulls Ward away from the headboard, looping his arm across his chest to hold him up right. Ward anchors himself, covering the hand Danny has on his ribs with his own and reaching back to thread his fingers through Danny's curls. “Is that good?” Danny rasps against his ear, hips rolling.

“Uh huh,” he's incoherent, voice lost in a high pitched mewl, as Danny sucks a bruise to his neck.

“Like you close like this,” he whispers against his skin, “like being able to get my mouth on you.”

The change in angle means he get hit Ward deeper, thrusting against him in choppy bursts, as Ward buries his fingers is his hair, nails scraping against his scalp. There's no hiding like this – Ward feels on display, dizzy and flushed pink, and he spreads his knees wider. Pressure builds under his skin; he feels like he's going to fly apart, and fireworks go off behind his tightly closed eyes. He drops his head back to Danny's shoulder, his neck a long, lean line of bruises – artwork Danny was kind enough to give him.

“Touch me, please,” he keens, “baby, I'm so close – please.”

Danny slides his hand down to wraps around his cock, fingers gripping him tightly, as he licks a stripe along Ward's pulse. “Is this good?” He asks, jerking him in time with his thrusts, “is this how you want it?” Ward nods, his words cut off by a desperate whine. “All I want is to take care of you.”

“You do – you take such good care of me,” he's slurring, back arching as his hips stutter. “Love you so much.”

“I love you,” Danny whispers, working him just the sweetest side of rough. His fingers are slick and wet around him, and Ward gasps, chest heaving, as he comes all over himself and Danny's hand. It's only because of Danny's arm, solid and sturdy, around his waist, that he doesn't manage to fall over. His bones don't work, and his body won't cooperate, and Danny fucks into him so tenderly that he wants to cry. “I'm close – I promise, I'm so close.”

“It's okay,” Ward tries to comfort him, petting through his hair with a dreamy caress. “You feel good.” And he does, even as he loses his rhythm and his hips jerk clumsily, the push and drag of Danny's cock inside him has him gasping. Lightning sparks across the sky, illuminating the room with bright flashes of white. After a few more deep thrusts, he tightens his hold on Ward, fingers digging in and leaving bruises, as he comes, panting hard against his neck. Thunder follows soon after.

He gentles Ward down on the bed, letting his settle on his side, as he pants.

“You okay?” He asks, trailing a finger down Ward's limp arm. Ward nods, his hair rustling against the softness of Danny's pillows. “Good,” he presses a kiss to his cheek, brushing his bangs out of his eyes.

\- - -

They get cleaned up – which is to say, Danny cleans them up before curling up behind Ward, slinging one arm over his waist and nestling close against his back. Ward covers Danny's hand with his own, slotting their fingers together, and lets the sharp staccato of the rain lull him to sleep. The last thing he hears before he drifts off is Danny's voice, rough like it's been dragged over gravel.

“I love you.”

\- - -

June descends upon them with a heatwave.

Ward hates it, and Colleen starts threatening to cut off all the sleeves from her shirts. Karen endures, only because she is stronger than both of them combined. It becomes a struggle to even keep Danny dressed, as he is content to sprawl out, naked, in either his or Ward's bed. (Though he started wearing boxers for the latter, when it became clear that Colleen was definitely taking advantage of Ward's offer to do her laundry in his apartment, and there really was no telling when she might walk in on him.) True to Jessica's warning, Harold Meachum does show up in the news, but Ward does his best to ignore it. He doesn't know if he'll be called to testify, but he's waiting for his phone to start ringing regardless.

The first sidewalk sale of June becomes an unofficial pride party – Ward lets Karen paint his fingernails with rainbow polish, and Colleen finds temporary tattoos for all of them to wear. Colleen helps Karen with some hair chalk, so her blonde pigtails are streaked through rainbow pigment. In return, Karen helps Colleen pile her long, black hair up on her head in twin fun buns, decorated with little rainbow pom-pom hair ties. While they dote on each other, Ward drags the tables out onto the sidewalk and sets up giant standing fans with misting sprays.

If they're going to be outside, they might as well be comfortable.

He also makes them smear sunscreen all over their arms, legs, faces, and necks, even as they complain that he's slipping into ultimate dad mode. Once their faces are dry, they apply little rainbow heart temporary tattoos to their cheeks – Ward picks out a pink, purple, and blue heart and begrudgingly allows them to put it on his cheek as well.

Jessica, surprisingly enough, shows up shortly before opening. She helps Colleen carry some extra speakers outside – because a party isn't a party without some music – and then endures both Karen and Colleen fawning over her. She lets them braid her hair into a complicated twist with glittery, rainbow barrettes and even picks out a rainbow heart tattoo – though she puts in on the back of her hand, rather than on her face.

“All the better to punch out homophobes,” she says, holding up her newly decorated fist.

“That's the spirit,” Ward encourages her, pushing a cart full of cacti and succulents out to the tables. (She was very upset she didn't get to confront the car from a few days ago – Frank was apparently enough to scare them off, because they haven't seen it since.)

They all wear their Plant Pride shirts – even Jessica – which prompts Colleen to demand a group picture. Their Plant Pride merch has been selling well, which Ward is very grateful for – he doesn't know what he would have done if they tried to put on a fundraiser like this, and it failed. As it stands, their shirts and pins have been very popular, so much so that he's added them to the online shop. Colleen's been pressuring him to figure out how to ship their plants too – other nurseries are doing it, she maintains, Dryad & Co. needs to step up! – but he's not sure if they're ready for that yet.

He's content with his shop and his sidewalk sales.

The crowd picks up quickly, drawn in by the poppy mix that Colleen's put on, and Ward keeps himself busy by answering questions and grabbing shirts. Lots of people congratulate him on their hard work between asking for plant recommendations. One woman asks him about a Variegated Candle Plant – Ward looks over the pointy green and white leaves with a smile, and explains that it needs well draining soil, and that it shouldn't be left dry for too long. 

A few teenagers compliment his heart tattoo, and he's almost positive they're not making fun of him. He directs them to Karen, who's happily applying temporary tattoos to anyone who asks. There's a small cluster of over excited children surrounding her already. She even convinced Frank to let her put one on his bicep; the rainbow heart stands out candy-bright against his black and gray work. 

Colleen, he notices, is making eyes at a pretty, freckled redhead browsing their echeveria selection. He jerks his head in her direction, trying to encourage her to make a move, and her cheeks flush pink in a way that has nothing to do with the late morning heat. Marci and Malcolm have also come – he sees them chatting with Karen as she applies a tattoo to Marci's wrist. Claire is nearby, watching Karen's technique with a small smile on her face.

Stealing a moment for himself, Ward stands in front of one of the fans, letting the misty breeze settle over him as he slips his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. The chatter of his customers milling about mingles with the summery, synthy music that's playing over the speakers. He takes in the scent of thriving plants and sunscreen with a smile.

“Hi handsome,” a voice drawls in his ear, and he looks down, smiling at the bouquets of roses decorating the hands settling over his belt buckle.

“Careful,” he quips with a grin, “I'm a taken man.” Danny huffs out a laugh, presses a quick kiss to the side of Ward's neck, and untangles himself. Ward reaches for him, linking their fingers together – his rainbow polish looks especially festive against Danny's black nails – and Danny brushes his lips across the back of Ward's hand.

“Nice tattoo,” he comments, eyes bright with happiness, “though, I gotta say – I was hoping to be your first.” Ward laughs, dropping his head back, as Danny pulls him close, moving in time with the music. Maybe one day, he'll let Danny tattoo him, Ward thinks, as he sways in Danny's arms. “Who gave you eyes like that,” he sings along, under his breath, “said you could keep them?”

Ward laughs harder, pressing his forehead to Danny's shoulder as they rock. It feels easy to be with happy with Danny – spontaneous, and goofy, and uncaring of what people might think of him. So what if he wants to dance with his boyfriend? Even if his boyfriend is suddenly singing pop songs into his ear, which is a truly upsetting betrayal. He never would have done this back at his father's company – he was under constant surveillance, and anything he did was immediately reported back to Harold.

Here though, on the sidewalk outside his shop, surrounded by friends, he can do whatever he wants.

“I really, really, really, really, really, really like you,” Danny whispers against his ear, and Ward shakes his head.

“I really, really, really, really, really, really like you too,” he replies in a deadpan, just to make Danny crack up – which he does. He laughs with his whole body, eyes lighting up electric blue as he bows his head, sunlight catching in the loops of his honey curls. He's swapped out his ear plugs again – they're clear resin, filled with rainbow sprinkles, like from an ice cream sundae. Ward suddenly finds himself craving something sweet.

“Hey, Ward!” Jessica calls for him and he twists around to look at her, not letting go of Danny. She makes her way through the crowd – some strands of hair have fallen out of her braid, and they frame her dark eyes in wispy tendrils. “One of my sources wanted to meet you,” she tells him in a hushed voice, piercing him with her stare, “I told her it was a bad idea, but –”

Ward gazes past her shoulder to see a woman with brown hair standing next to a display of cacti – she's staring down at a Fishbone Cactus (named for the zig zag shape of its leggy stems), but she looks up at him when Jessica says his name. She's wearing one of the Plant Pride shirts, and she clasps her hands nervously in front of herself as she gnaws on her lower lip – it's a bad habit, one she's had since they were kids. Her hazel eyes meet his and, chin trembling, she smiles at him. He swallows, throat clicking, and his breath catches in his lungs. Tears fill his eyes and he sniffs, realizing that she's crying too.

“Joy,” he opens his arms, and she runs to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are. Twenty days after I started writing, and it's all done and posted. Quarantine has been a bit tough -- I graduated from grad school, I'm in the process of moving out of my apartment... and of course, I decided to start a big project like this. But it was a nice outlet for my energy, and it gave me something to focus on when things felt (and still feel!) very uncertain. I hope you all enjoyed. :]
> 
> **And now, because grad school has broken me, have some sources.**  
>  (because I was this close to adding footnotes, you guys don't even know.)
> 
> The Plant Pride Pins are inspired by [these Ice Cream Cone Pride Pins](https://www.geekstudio.ca/?Collection=Enamel%20Pins) which are very, very cute, and I love them so much.
> 
> The musical artist [City Girl](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC382H9j5oXUeJqcBSpzusPQ), that Jessica and Ward listen to in the break room during their talk, is real! She is amazingly talented; her music is very dreamy and wistful -- definitely recommend.
> 
> The song that Danny and Ward are dancing to at the end is [I Really Like You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qV5lzRHrGeg) by her royal slayness Carly Rae Jepsen.
> 
> All of the plants mentioned in this story are also real. I got inspiration from [Pistil Nursery](https://pistilsnursery.com/%22), a plant shop in Oregon; [Found Things Co.](https://www.foundthingsco.com/), a plant shop in New York; and [Etsy](https://www.etsy.com/), of all places. If you want more information on succulents and cacti, [World of Succulents](https://worldofsucculents.com/) is an excellent resource. I'm also always down to talk plants, if anyone wants to chat.
> 
> One more shout out to [csi_sanders1129](https://archiveofourown.org/users/csi_sanders1129/pseuds/csi_sanders1129) for being a great friend during this project.  
> and shout to me, for only buying one plant while writing this. well done, self. you deserve a treat.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading friends!  
> feedback is always appreciated!


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